


Cooking Up Christmas

by Garrae



Category: Castle
Genre: Candid friend, Chocolate, Christmas, Cooking, Cooking Lessons, F/M, Romance, Sex and Chocolate
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-01
Updated: 2019-01-08
Packaged: 2019-10-02 02:45:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 25,189
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17256158
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Garrae/pseuds/Garrae
Summary: Cooking was not Beckett's favourite pastime. Unfortunately, it was a bullpen tradition that each year, at Christmas, everyone had to bring in home-made treats. She had subverted it every year. But this year, there was Castle, who could, famously, cook...





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Previously posted to Fanfiction.net.

Cooking, it was fair to say, was not Beckett’s favourite pastime.  In fact, it ranked somewhere slightly below sticking pins in her eyes, and since her view of acupuncture was already subterranean, she would cheerfully acknowledge that she hated cooking.

Unfortunately, it was a bullpen tradition that, in the run up to Christmas, everyone had to bring in _home-made_ treats.  Beckett suspected that this was Montgomery’s fault, and the man didn’t even have the decency to be apologetic about it.  In previous years, she had (shhh! Don’t tell) bought some ready-made pies from a funny little British shop ( _mince_ pies?  What the hell had fruit to do with _minced meat_?), then popped them in her otherwise unused oven until they were marginally charred around the edges, taken them in, and dared anyone to comment.  Strangely, they were usually found in the trash at the end of the day, occasionally with one single bite from them.

Until this particular Christmas, her culinary incapability hadn’t worried her in the slightest, and Lanie had happily kept her secret, on pain of death by being choked with the mince pies.

But this year there was Castle, and she couldn’t stand that he might think her incompetent at anything.  He didn’t know (well, she hadn’t _told_ him) that she lived on takeout and ready meals.  And _she_ knew that he was an excellent cook.  In their unspoken, but constant competition, she was absolutely not prepared to lose.

Therefore she needed to be able to say – truthfully – that she’d made whatever it was going to be, and whatever it was needed to be _delicious_. 

“Lanie, I need your help,” Beckett said, glass of wine at the ready; a quiet table secured in their favourite, comfortable bar.

“Sure,” Lanie said happily, and took a large glug of her wine.  “What is it this time?  Murder, or men?”  Her cheerfully lecherous leer made it clear which she wanted it to be.

“Neither.”

Lanie’s face fell.  “C’mon, girl.  You’re so dried up you’re a prune in disguise.  You got to get out more.  Put it about a little.  Shake that booty,” she sang.

“ _How_ much wine did you have before I got here?”

“Not enough.  You don’t listen to my good advice.  You should put on something pretty and shake that ass under Castle’s nose.”

Beckett made a disgusted noise, mostly for form’s sake.  The idea of shaking her ass at Castle had crossed her mind more than a few times lately.  Not that she’d let him know that, of course.  There were dreams and there was logical reality.  She was firmly on the logical reality side of that line – though it didn’t mean she couldn’t enjoy the dreams, strictly privately.

Lanie was still talking.  “Not that he’d be able to find it.  You’re too slim for your own good.  You need an ass that someone can get a hold of.  Squeeeeeeeezable,” she stretched out.

“If you keep eating those chips like that, half of New York’ll be able to get a hold of yours.”

“Now that is just plain mean.  You’re as skinny as a skeleton and you hide what little you got up top under all those loose button-downs.  Anyone’d think you didn’t want to show off.”

“Anyone would be right.  I’m a cop, not a lingerie model.”

“A bit of model-girl showing off wouldn’t hurt,” Lanie grumbled.  “You don’t eat enough to keep a mouse alive, either.  I’ve seen your diet.  Half a carton of takeout and four lettuce leaves.”

“Ten,” Beckett said annoyingly.  “And I put full fat dressing on them.”

“That’s not a meal.  It’s a chemical reaction.  You should learn to cook.”

“About that…”

“About what?  Cooking?  _You?_ ”  Lanie’s glass clunked down on the table, rocking alarmingly.

“Don’t you think I can cook?”

“I’ve seen you try to burn water.  And the only roasting you ever do is suspects in the box.”

“Lanie, c’mon.  I need some help to be able to cook something for this dumb bring-a-treat idea of Montgomery’s.”

“Why?” Lanie asked, far too acutely for Beckett’s taste.  She looked at her cringing friend.  “Oh.  Oh, oh, ooohhhhh!  Is someone trying to impress a certain writer who we all know can cook?  Hallelujah!  Oh, this is going to be so fun.”  She snickered, and then outright laughed.  “Oh, I can’t wait.  Badass Beckett, who burns her pies every year, learning to cook.”

Beckett harrumphed.  “I don’t wanna learn to cook.  I wanna be able to make _one_ thing.  That’s it. No cooking.  I don’t do frilly cooking aprons or kitchens or cooking.  One thing.”

One thing, and then she could go back to her safely non-cuisined life.  She had no desire to use – which was just as well, because she didn’t own any – mixers (best with vodka), spatulae (sounded like a nasty bodily function), whisks (the only whisking she did was in work, from suspect to box to evidence), wooden spoons (for losers only), rolling pins (just _no_ ), or any other food-processing accoutrements.  Anyway, all known takeout suppliers cooked far better than she ever could, faster, and they had all the cleaning up to do and she didn’t.  Takeout was _efficient_ , and Beckett believed in efficiency in all things.

“One thing, huh?”  Lanie sniggered dirtily.  “Lace it with Spanish Fly and nobody’ll notice how it tastes.”

“Eurgh.”

“You wouldn’t be saying that if it had the right effect on that sexy writer, though I guess he doesn’t need it to give you a really good time.  That man is built, girl, and you don’t even take advantage of it.”

“Don’t wanna.”

“So why the interest in cooking?  You two wouldn’t need an oven to heat up the room.”

Beckett muttered a mumbled sentence.

“Say again?”

“Not looking dumb in front of him.”

“Prideful, girlfriend.  Why do you care?  He can cook well enough for both of you, so I hear.”

“Wouldn’t know.”

“Liar.  I know you’ve eaten at his place.”

“Once.  Breakfast.  Only because I went to give that necklace back and was kidnapped.”

“Yeah, right.  Like anyone makes you do anything you don’t want to.”

“Are you going to help me with this or not?”

“Hell, yeah.  Watching you try to cook anything?  You bet that skinny ass of yours I’ll be there.  Now.  What do you wanna learn to make?”

“Dunno,” Beckett muttered sulkily.  “Something.”

“Cake is always good.  Or anything sweet.  Pies.  If you don’t burn them.”

Beckett glowered.

“See, that’s why they burn.  You glare at them and they singe round the edges.”

“Mean.”

“So’ve you been mean.  Sauce for the goose – hey, you could cook Christmas dinner.”

“You gotta be kidding.  No way am I cooking dinner.  I love my dad.  I don’t want to poison him.”

Lanie dropped that idea, fortunately, because Beckett was not going to change the habits of ten plus years and try to cook.  She and her father were very happy to buy the whole meal (just like Thanksgiving) from someone who _could_ cook, and then heat it up and eat it with considerable enjoyment and no effort.  Perfect.  Absolutely the logical and efficient thing to do, even if Christmas was, in general, neither logical nor efficient. 

Beckett believed in logic and efficiency.  If she needed or wanted an item or experience, she saved up and bought it as soon as she could.  If there were things to be done, she did them.  She didn’t subscribe to the theory that waiting for presents was more fun than simply purchasing them – that was silly.  Why shouldn’t she have whatever it was to use and enjoy as soon as possible?  The _point_ was use and enjoyment.  Restricting that was dumb. 

And she didn’t want to receive random items, either.  She and her father happily swapped (efficient) lists, so that they both ended up with something they liked or could use – normally both.  No disappointment, guaranteed.  She had a nice, energy efficient, table top tree, which didn’t shed needles and could be reused next year.  In fact, she had a lovely, logical, efficient plan for Christmas, which worked for her.  Christmas might not be logical, or efficient, but she could minimise both the illogic and the inefficiency with the application of a little thought and planning.

“I got it!” Lanie broke into Beckett’s thinking. 

“Yeah?  You’ll teach me to make something?”

“You gotta be kidding.  You’d stab me with the knife before we’d even started.  I like my own blood right where it is, not dripping on the floor.  I was not created to be a stuck pig, and before you start, I’m not donating my blood for you to try to make black pudding.”

“What?”

“I donate blood to the Red Cross.”

“No, what’s black pudding?”

“Delicious,” Lanie said with a lick of her lips.  “But you don’t wanna know how it’s made.  Like sausages, you just enjoy it.”

Beckett’s nose wrinkled.  “Sounds disgusting.  How can you eat anything like that?”

“After you’ve seen a few autopsies, nothing’s sacred.  Anyway, you like sausages, don’t you?”  She nodded.  “Though you should be playing Hunt the Sausage” –

“Shut up.” 

Lanie shut up.  She recognised the look in Beckett’s eye.  “Anyway,” she said, “what you need are cookery classes.”

“Classes?”

“Yep.”  She pulled out her phone and tapped happily for a minute or two.  “See, lots of classes.  Anything you like.  Here’s one – pies and buns.”

“So you want me to walk into the bullpen announcing that I’ve got great buns?”

Lanie spat her drink over the table as she choked laughing.  “Maybe not,” she managed, when she’d stopped coughing.  “Chocolates…no, that’s complicated.  Um…mmmm, taffy.  Still complicated.”

“Complicated how?”

“Thermometers, and temperatures.  I’d be fine.  I’m good with thermometers.”

“I don’t want to know where your thermometer’s been.  I’m never having taffy at your place again if it involves your thermometer.”

Lanie magnificently ignored Beckett’s snark.  “Here you are.  Cupcakes.  Easy.  Even third-graders can make cupcakes.”

“If a third-grader can do it, I can do it.”  She hoped she could do it.  And if not, there was always Magnolia, and Montgomery could sit on a rolling pin and swivel if he didn’t like it.   Oh.  Her _own_ delicious work.  Truthfully.

“Great.  I’ll book them now, for both of us.”  Lanie tapped happily while Beckett struggled to close her mouth.

“What?” she finally managed.  “Why are you coming?”

“Moral support.  And I always wanted to know how to pipe frosting properly, and now’s my chance.  Win-win.”

“You’ll laugh at me,” Beckett sulked. 

“Remember that yoga class you talked me into?  I couldn’t unbend my knees for a week.  I’ve been waiting for a chance to get revenge _forever_.  Suck it up, girlfriend.”

Beckett grumbled and groused and muttered and mumbled and gave in.  “Okay.  So when is it?”

“Twice a week.  Wednesday and Friday, at six.”

“What?  More than one?  But” –

“Four classes.  Takes you nicely up to mid-December, and you can always practice at home in between.”  Lanie grinned, far too cheerfully for Beckett’s jaundiced emotions.  “It’ll be fun.  Worst that can happen is that your cakes will sink in the middle, and if they’re awful you can feed them to Espo.  That man would eat anything.”  Beckett raised a sceptical eyebrow.  Lanie leered.  “Yep.”

“Too.  Much.  Information.”

“It wouldn’t hurt if you got Castle to lick your frosting” –

“Lanie!”

“Just sayin’.”

Beckett buried her nose in her wine and tried not to notice her own reaction.  She wasn’t entirely successful.

“And no excuses.  Only a verified dead body where I’m the ME will be accepted,” Lanie finished up.  “It’s gonna be great.”

Beckett wasn’t nearly so sure.

* * *

Castle made no secret of his love of Christmas – rather the reverse.  As soon as Thanksgiving was over, he started planning for Christmas dinner, purchasing presents (usually to add to those he’d been purchasing whenever he saw them), considering the correct (enormous, gigantic or titanic) size of tree and the best lot from which to source it, and plotting ever more wonderful decorations.  In between, he watched cheerful Christmas movies, and enjoyed them just as much the second, third or thirtieth time as the first.

Christmas was the holiday most suited to Castle’s infinite capacity for joy, happiness, love and fun, in fact.  It allowed him to give all the people he loved or liked presents, which was an activity he adored; he loved all the traditions of the season; he got to decorate lavishly (also an activity he adored); and best of all, he got to cook delicious food in wholly excessive quantities.  He loved cooking, and he loved sharing the fruits of his labours.  Even Thanksgiving wasn’t quite as good as Christmas.

Castle, in fact, had been utterly and volubly delighted when Montgomery had informed him of the bullpen tradition of bringing in homemade baked goods, and had had to have his plans for bringing something daily firmly nixed.  He’d pouted, but Montgomery had been immovable. 

“It’s team bonding, Castle.  If you bring something every day, it spoils it.  Everyone has to do their bit.”  He’d smirked evilly.  “Even Beckett bakes something.”  He hadn’t specified what, and not a single flicker of a Captainly eyelash had disclosed that Montgomery was pretty damn certain that Beckett had cheated every year.  He just didn’t dare call it out in case she made him eat those disgustingly sweet, sticky things.  Brits had no taste.  Give him pecan pie any day, with plenty of cream.

“Beckett bakes?”

“Sure she does.”

Castle disappeared rapidly, missing Montgomery’s wide grin and almost-supressed sniggers behind him.  That should ensure Castle’s contribution was exceptionally good, and Montgomery felt that he deserved exceptionally good baking for allowing Castle back at all.  He’d been deeply worried that Beckett would kill him in some creative and undetectable fashion, but it seemed to have worked out okay.  Next step in his grand plan: to move them a bit closer together.  It was obvious that they should hook up.

 _What to bake?_ Castle thought.  Something delicious, something sweet – and something he could make in industrial quantities, since the bullpen’s tolerance for sugar was enough to give the entire population of Texas diabetes.  Hmm.  He’d think about it for a while.  He had plenty of time.

In the meantime, he’d muse about Beckett, and work out what she would like.  Sweet – God alone knew how she had perfect teeth, because she was able to dispose of sweets like a wolf on an elk – and again, sweet, to balance out all that snark.  He wanted to make something _incredible_ , simply to please her.  He ambled home, dreaming of cordon bleu standard baking, or maybe chocolates?  Home-made chocolates?  He could make them over several days, in batches, and box them up: easy to carry, easy to make lots: he could even do a selection.  And there would be some left over for him.

Perfect.  He settled down at his laptop to begin to research the most delightful chocolates that he could imagine, and a couple of hours later emerged from culinary heaven, starving.

* * *

Beckett woke the following morning with a tinge of headache, which she attributed to the wine; and a feeling of existential dread, which she attributed to the need to attend cooking classes.  As she was off-shift, however, she could start the day slowly, with three buckets of good coffee and a slightly stale croissant that she’d found in the fridge.  (She had no idea how it had got into the fridge.  Croissants belonged in her stomach, not in the fridge.)  As the coffee percolated through her body and started her neurons firing (or, more accurately, misfiring before finally sputtering into life), it occurred to her that – if she wanted _not_ to look dumb in front of the cookery class, which was a consummation devoutly to be wished ( _not the only one,_ said a naughty wiggly brainworm, which she ignored) – she could go buy a cookbook and some ingredients, and practice at home.

She’d rather undertake a self-appendectomy without anaesthetic. 

She dragged herself into the necessary frame of mind to brave any type of stores in the season of Christmas-tide, sharpened her elbows, considered sunglasses in order to reduce the blinding effect of tinsel and baubles and flashing little lights (she would have a migraine, she was sure), and marched out with something of the demeanour of Captain Oates taking his walk into the South Pole winter.

Nearly two hours later, a frazzled, out-of-temper Beckett marched back, dumped a half-ton of assorted _stuff_ ( _cooking kit_ , the brainworm corrected.  She ignored that, too.  Brainworms had no business in her brain) on her table, and made herself an espresso that was strong enough to serve as a dance floor at the Ritz.  That swallowed in one aggravated gulp, she made another, chased it with a third, considered vodka and declined it purely on the grounds that vodka before noon was uncivilised, and finally stared at the _stuff_ ( _kit!_ squawked the brainworm. STUFF! yelled Beckett) on her table.

There was a bowl, a wooden spoon, and a metal contraption which looked like a torture device or a very perverted sex toy, which the store staff had called a whisk.  There was flour, butter, sugar, and six eggs.  There were “cups”.  And what the hell was that all about?  She had cups.  Apparently they weren’t the _right_ kind of cups.  So she’d had to lay out another few dollars on _baking_ cups.  There was even a rolling pin.

Baking, Beckett concluded bitterly, was just another money-making scam by storekeepers.  Not to mention the extortionate price of the cookbook.  A very _basic_ cookbook.  And she was never ever ever _ever_ going to let on to anyone in the entire world that it was a cookbook for third-graders.

She shook herself firmly.  How hard could it be?  If a third-grader could do it, she could do it.  Everyone could cook.  So she could cook.  She would bake cupcakes and they would be edible, even if she had to practice for the next four weeks every single night.

Which, looking at the pile of _stuff_ on her table, was entirely probable.  However, she was not going to look dumb in front of Castle, so she’d better get on with it.

After lunch.

Which was takeout pizza.  Logical, efficient, and tasty.

Oh God, this was going to be a disaster.


	2. Chapter 2

After lunch, Beckett carefully tidied up so that she was starting with a clear murder board – er, counter.  She couldn’t work in a messy space.  Also, it delayed the fateful moment when she had to follow the instructions.

She read them carefully, and ignored the mildly patronising tone (it was for third-graders) and comments on allowing one’s parent to deal with the oven.  Okay.  Preheat the oven to 320-350F.  Preheat?  They meant _heat_.  She switched it on, set the temperature to 335F with care, and left it to do its thing.  So far, so good.

The rest of the instructions were reasonably clear and, thankfully, simple.  Beckett did exactly what the recipe said, and finally had a mixture that she could dollop into the cake cases and put in the oven.  She set the timer precisely in accordance with the recipe, and breathed a sigh of relief.  That hadn’t been too bad.  It was just like high-school chemistry.  Follow the instructions carefully, and it would all work out.  What on earth had she been worrying about?  Logic, efficiency and care solved nearly all problems.

At which point, she realised that she had to clear up.  Ugh.  She did so, put the cookbook away (very well hidden), and sat down with a coffee to pass the time until her cakes were cooked.  Frosting could wait for another day.

The oven chimed completion, and Beckett removed her cupcakes.  They looked delightful.  Nicely brown, nicely risen – for all of ten seconds, after which they all sank gently in the middle.  She glared viciously at them, and investigated.  On cutting one open, it seemed to be a little soggy in the middle.  As in, nearly raw.  She scowled, which didn’t make it any better.  Then she Googled.

What?  Well, that was a dumb thing.  Apparently each oven was slightly different, and the cooking time should be adjusted accordingly, by trial and – as with her cakes – error.  That was _not_ efficient or logical.  A temperature was a temperature, and had no business being inaccurate in any respect.  Likewise time.  Regardless of sci-fi movies, time was immutable. She looked at the sunken cakes, thought for a whole microsecond, and dumped them in the trash.

Mere moments later, the wisdom of that course of action – and of opening the windows to get rid of the smell – became apparent.  A familiar rat-a-tat on the door announced that Castle had arrived, which was (one) uninvited ( _you really don’t mind that_ , the brainworm noted) and (two) unhelpful.  On the other hand, he was carrying a pretty box, and appeared more than usually happy.

“Hey?” she questioned.

“You have to try these, Beckett!  They’re great!”

“Hallo, Beckett, how are you?  I’m fine, thanks.  You?”

“Stoppit.  You’re being mean already and I’ve brought you a present.”

That certainly made a difference, though it wasn’t necessarily a good difference.  Presents meant surprises, which were not efficient or logical.  Still, she had manners.  “Thank you.  Want a coffee?  Go sit down.”

Castle bounced over to the couch and put the pretty box – with a beautifully curled ribbon, too – on the table.  He fidgeted until the coffee was made, and then fidgeted while Beckett put the tray down and sat herself.

“So, what is it?”

“Open it and look,” Castle said proudly.

Beckett complied, carefully untying the ribbon and rolling it neatly round her fingers, to be set aside for later use.

“Hurry up.”

“Patience, Castle.  You said it was my present, so I get to unwrap it at my pace.”

“How can you not just tear off the wrappings to discover the delights beneath?”

“Because slow uncovering is so much nicer,” Beckett flipped back, and instantly realised her mistake.

“Is it?” Castle oozed.  “I’ll bear that in mind.”  His eyes had instantly darkened and his smile turned sexy rather than little-boy enthusiastic.

Beckett ignored that in favour of the box. ( _You don’t want to ignore it_ , the brainworm said.  _Why don’t you do a little uncovering?  That sweatshirt really doesn’t flatter you_.  Beckett mentally used the sweatshirt to suffocate the brainworm.)  She gave the box a very gentle shake, and heard a faint shuffle.

“Wow,” she gasped as she opened the lid to reveal chocolates.  “These look delicious.”

“Try one.”

Beckett put a tantalisingly dark chocolate in her mouth, and nearly moaned.  Raspberry crème.  Really good chocolate wasn’t so much her weakness as the fastest way to her total seduction, which she had carefully avoided allowing Castle to know.  ( _Now he does.  Couldn’t miss it, the way you’re carrying on.  You should be embarrassed._   She wasn’t.)  A second chocolate was already in her fingers.

“Do you like them?”

“Yes.  These are fabulous.  Where did you get them?”  The second – coffee and a hint of liqueur – was already between her lips.

“Oh,” Castle said casually, “I made them.”  Beckett choked, coughed, spluttered and nearly exploded trying to breathe again.  “Are you okay?” he worried.

“Yeah.  You made them?”

“Yep.  I was trying them out – Montgomery said I had to do the Christmas bake too, so I thought chocolates would be good ‘cause I could make plenty of them.”

He’d made them. _Made_ them.  She couldn’t even make a cupcake yet and Castle was producing the best chocolates she’d ever tasted.  ( _That’s the third one_ , the brainworm criticised. _You’ll get fat_.  Beckett drowned the stupid worm in some low-fat sunflower oil.  Anyway, Lanie had said she was too thin.)  It wasn’t fair.  The third one had been a praline.  She adored praline chocolate – the nut variety, not the New Orleans candy, though she’d certainly never say no to those either – second only to coffee with whatever that hint of liqueur had been.

Her first instinct was to say _No, the bullpen will hate them, but I’ll eat the lot_.  Some last vestige of discretion and sense kept that statement – along with a fourth chocolate, which proved to be salted caramel and as wonderful as the first three – behind her closed lips.

“They’ll love them,” she said.

Castle stared at her.  “Why, Beckett!  That was a compliment!  Are you feeling okay?”  She nodded.  Castle grinned.  “You won’t be if you keep eating these that fast.  That’s your fifth.  I guess you like them.  I wasn’t going to take them back, you know.”

Beckett glared, but grasped the box protectively.  There were at least fifteen chocolates left, and she had a cast-iron digestion which was undamaged by vast quantities of coffee and chocolate.  Castle grinned more widely.

“You like chocolate.”

That was not news.

“You really like chocolate.”

Still not news.

“I like chocolate too,” he purred, leaned forward, and swept his thumb across her lips, removed the single molecule of chocolate which had escaped her palate, and licked it lasciviously from his digit.

“What are you doing?”

“You had a smudge,” he said innocently.  Beckett swept the box of chocolates away from him.  “Meanie,” he pouted.

“Mine.”

Castle simply shrugged.  “I can always make more.”

“Yes, please,” Beckett’s chocolate-delighted mouth said without any input from her brain whatsoever.

Castle’s beam lit the room.  “You really, really liked them.”  He stood up.  “I’d better go start making some more.” 

Politely, Beckett stood too, though she kept one eye firmly on the box just in case Castle tried to remove it, or some previously unsuspected mouse or spider might steal a morsel.  Just before he opened the door, Castle turned back to her.  “You’ve got another smudge,” he smiled, leaned forward, and dusted a light kiss across her mouth.  “Bye,” he chirped unrepentantly at her growl, and hightailed it out of the apartment before she could shoot him.

 _Try not to drool_ , the brainworm advised. _It’s not pretty when you’re a cute baby, let alone when you’re thirty._

Beckett ignored the brainworm and at least one of the reasons for drooling in favour of another chocolate, and then firmly put them in the fridge for later.  The second reason for drooling forced its way to the front of her mind, and was forced back.

 _If he hadn’t run out of the door you’d have jumped his bones_. 

“Would not,” Beckett said aloud.

_Would so.  The man brought you chocolate.  You’d do anything for good chocolate.  Absolutely anything.  And that kiss barely pecked you and it’s sizzling down your veins._

Beckett went to the fridge and took out another two chocolates, put them on the table, contemplated their beautiful form and design, and then ate them very slowly and with relish.

After that, she stared at the mess of half-baked cakes in the trash, summoned all her competitive spirit, and resolved to do better the next time.  If at first she didn’t succeed, she would try again.  She wasn’t going to be defeated by something a third-grader could do.  _Especially_ since Castle was producing superb chocolates without apparent effort.  She ate another one, and forced herself to stop.  Unfortunately, the lack of chocolate left an awful lot of headspace for the memory of the kiss.

It had _scalded_.  A brief brush of lips, and it _burned_.  It still burned now, and even the chocolate hadn’t soothed it.  Not only that, but it was addictive – just like the chocolates.  She was halfway to the fridge when she realised what she was doing, and turned around, touching her lips.

 _You want more_ , the brainworm smirked.  Too damn right she did.  _I meant kisses_ , it clarified.So had she, but she wasn’t letting that damn brainworm know it.  _I’m in your dumb head_ , it pointed out.  _I know exactly what you meant_.  She growled at it.  It stuck its wriggly tongue out at her.

It hadn’t even been a proper kiss.  ( _You wanted a proper kiss_.)  It barely qualified as a peck on a maiden Victorian aunt’s cheek.  ( _You shouldn’t have growled at him_ , the brainworm chided.)  Castle had no business not kissing her properly.  She humphed loudly, and forced herself back to the couch, not the fridge.

* * *

Castle sauntered home, exceedingly pleased with himself.  His one regret – but he was sure he’d overcome it shortly – was that he hadn’t simply continued kissing Beckett.  Even that light peck had tasted like heaven, and it had barely been possible to smirk and leave.  He subsided into a happy reverie, fuelled by the memory of her soft moan as she tasted the chocolate, and began to plan ways to induce sexy moans which might or might not involve chocolate but would certainly involve kisses.  Et cetera.  Her lips had been so soft and sweet – a total contrast to the snark they emitted every day of the week.  She hadn’t been snarky about the chocolate, though.  Oh no.  She’d loved it.  He indulged in some lustful thoughts, chiefly centred around some less-than-publicly-visible uses for chocolate, and happily decided that if the way to Beckett’s heart was chocolate, he’d win it in a week.

But slowly.  Carefully.  Seductively.  This wasn’t going to flare up and then burn out.  _Slowly, Rick.  Take it slow._   He tried hard not to think about taking Beckett, and failed.

* * *

A couple of days later, in which she had resolutely ignored both the cookbook and her guilt at not practising making the cupcakes, Beckett returned from a frustrating day chasing leads which all dissolved into mist and then disappeared, listening to Ryan and Espo boast about their culinary skills (none: they were as incompetent as she, on the basis of the previous five years), and not reacting to Castle’s incessant innuendos and hyperactive enthusiasm.  She thought of her chocolates, and managed not to shoot anyone.  ( _No chocolate in prison_ , the brainworm reminded her.  _And this is sheer sexual frustration.  Told you to jump his bones.  You could invite him round._   Beckett ignored it.  If she invited Castle round, she’d have to share the chocolate.  No sex, no matter how good ( _it would be spectacular_ , the brainworm commented) was worth that sacrifice.)

The first thing she did when she got home, with amazing self-restraint, was make coffee.  With the coffee, she had one chocolate.  She was logical and efficient and controlled, and she could restrict herself to one chocolate before dinner, which was logical – chocolates were even better as dessert; efficient – it wouldn’t spoil her appetite; and controlled.

Then she had dinner, which consisted of the remainder of last night’s Thai takeout with some salad leaves.  Then she had a chocolate, to fortify her for the coming efforts.

And finally she extracted the cookbook, to try again.  Just like the first time, she followed the recipe exactly.  However, today, she added a few minutes to the cooking time, as suggested by her Googling.  Then she cleared up, and waited.  When the oven cheeped at her, she trepidatiously opened it, and removed the second effort at cupcakes.

They had risen.  She regarded them.  They didn’t sink.  That was a bit better.  Unfortunately, they appeared to be somewhat singed at the edges.  That was not better.  Or maybe it was.  She scowled at the blackened – nope, merely darkish brown – edges; allowed them to cool for a few moments, opened a window despite the late-November chill to remove the smell of burning, then trimmed off the dark parts and sampled the baking.

Much to her surprise, they weren’t too bad at all.  They were moderately light, and tasted like cakes should taste.  So, she thought happily, she merely had to hit the middle of the cooking time, and it would be good.  She could do this baking thing.  She hauled the cookbook back out, made a manuscript note about cooking time, and dumped the burnt edges in the trash, keeping the edible centres.  Tomorrow, at the class, she’d get it right.

In celebration, she ate the final chocolate, which made her mouth and tastebuds orgasmically happy.  She was just savouring the final molecules of the last one, and shaking the box to see if more would magically appear, when the door sounded.

It was Castle.  Again.  She knew it simply from the tone of the knock.  She whisked the open window shut, and shoved the edible pieces of sponge into a cupboard where they couldn’t be seen.  Just in time, she whipped the cookbook away, too.

“I thought you weren’t in, you took so long,” Castle said as he entered.  He had another – rather too small – box in his hand, which Beckett regarded with the predatorily hopeful aspect of a vampire entering the storage vaults of a blood bank.  She raised a quelling eyebrow, and the tips of his ears went pink.  “Anyway, I brought you samples of the next types of chocolates.”  He proffered the box.  “I thought we could share them.”

( _Share them_? squawked the brainworm.  _Does he know you?_ )

“Okay,” Beckett managed.  Her normal politeness was seriously strained by the suggestion of sharing.  “I’ll get us coffee.”

Castle sat down, and unwrapped the box.  He didn’t open the lid, which was unbelievable.  It was _chocolate_ , for goodness’ sake.  She made the coffee and brought it over, sitting close to the chocolates.  ( _And I suppose that sitting closer to a sexy man had nothing to do with it?_   Absolutely nothing at all.  _You like that cologne._   Shut up.)

He flipped the lid open so that Beckett could survey the contents.  There seemed to be four different shapes.  _Only_ four.  And she had to share them.  This was _not fair_.  Why hadn’t he made more?

“What are they?” she asked, moving nearer to the box.

“Lemon crème, coffee crème, a different praline – walnut: the other was hazelnut – and marzipan.”  He indicated.  “That’s the coffee one.”  Expectancy filled the air.  Coffee chocolate filled Beckett’s mouth.  Castle picked the marzipan delicacy, and set it by his coffee cup.  “Is it nice?”

She nodded.  Her mouth was full, so she couldn’t talk.

“Good,” he murmured, and caught her hand as she reached for the next one.  “Uh-uh.  I want to try it.”

“Huh?” was as far as Beckett got before Castle shifted right up close and kissed her.  She didn’t tell her lips to open under his, but they did; she didn’t ask her hands to rise and clasp about his neck, but _they_ did; and she certainly didn’t request her tongue to twine around his and share the taste of coffee chocolate, but it did that too.  His arms were around her, his hands slipping up her back – and why weren’t they _under_ her shirt, huh?, and his touch had to be electric because sparks were searing through her skin and sizzling down her nerves.

He lifted off, selected a lemon crème, and stroked it across her lips, inviting her to open and take it.  Her tongue flickered, a pink tip touched the chocolate.  Castle pushed it forward, and leaned after it, an inch away from her lips as she slowly, sensually chewed and swallowed; landing on them an instant later: a leisurely exploration and tasting.  She made a tiny noise, and knotted her hands in his hair, pulling him to her, taking in his lower lip and nipping seductively.

The kiss deepened: demanding each other surrender; the spark set light to the banked up fires and it ignited.  Lips clashed and crashed, both raiding, ravaging: one of Castle’s hands rounded her ribs and found the small mounds of her breasts, palming and stroking, sliding over the line of the edge of her bra then retreating.

“Do you want another chocolate?” he purred.  She licked her lips, and smiled a cat-like smile.

“Please,” she said, and pouted her lips together.  He kissed them.  “Not a chocolate,” she pouted further, but instead of supplying one he kissed her again, and again, and again, and she forgot about chocolate, being far too busy to think.  His hands were wicked, and they were everywhere she hadn’t known she wanted them to be.  ( _Hadn’t let yourself want, more like.  Dumbass_.)  They traced her breasts, and played with the curves, and then with the already-peaked nipples, through the soft, pale cotton of her shirt.  ( _Told you, you should wear the pretty ones more often._ )

And then he stopped.  _Stopped!_   What the _hell_?

( _Aw.  You don’t want him to stop.  How sweet_.  The brainworm’s tone was acid-sour.  Beckett hated sour candy.)

“I… think I’ve had enough….um… chocolate,” Castle squeaked, reluctantly pulling away from her.  “Time I went home.  I’ve got to get started on the Christmas decorations.”  He looked exceedingly flustered: pupils blown, hands suddenly firmly clasped, as if they would return to her if he didn’t stop them.

Beckett’s jaw dropped open.  He _what_?  _Christmas decorations_?  When he’d just been kissing ( _and the rest_ , said the brainworm.  _Don’t forget the rest._   As if she would) her into chocolate-flavoured ecstasy?

“Oh.”  She gathered some game – and the box of remaining chocolates.  All one of them.  “Okay, then.  See you tomorrow.”  She concealed her annoyance and ( _admit it, go on_ ) upset.

“Till tomorrow, Beckett.”  And he was gone, in a whirl of confusion.

Beckett gaped at the closed door and absence of Castle.  What the hell was he playing at?  Seducing her with chocolate and kisses (and not mere Hersheys, either) and then leaving her high and dry?

( _Hardly dry_ , the brainworm snarked.)

Well, two could play at that game.  She wouldn’t be in tomorrow evening, because she’d be at the cookery class with Lanie.  Serve him right.  And he’d left the chocolates, so she was on the winning side – he’d even left the one he’d selected, so she’d got two.  She ate them both, vengefully.  They were equally as delightful as the previous ones.

It didn’t improve her mood in the slightest.  ( _Frustration_ , the brainworm noted.  She took out her frustration on it by using her new rolling pin to wallop it flat.  It reflated.)


	3. Chapter 3

Castle didn’t know what had happened.  One minute he’d been thinking about flirting as Beckett selected (no surprise) the coffee chocolate, popped it in her mouth, and made sexy little moans around it – and the next minute he’d not just been flirting, he’d practically eaten the chocolate from the inside of her throat.  He’d completely lost all control.  That had _not_ been the plan.  He’d been _planning_ to take it slowly.  Feed her a second chocolate, sure – but not hard upon passionate kisses, and certainly not followed by the sorts of kisses that should have ended up in her bed.  He’d been rounding second base before he’d realised it, and only a faint fear that she would suddenly object had stopped him: well, that and a faint feeling that he had to get some sort of control of himself. 

He was trying to seduce her, not overpower her.  Metaphorically, that was.  The chance of him overpowering her was precisely zero: both because he’d never force anything and because she could kill him with her bare hands.  He wanted her to come to him, slowly: not some clashing, crashing night that would be spectacular – and over as soon as it was done.  If she came to him more slowly, surely she would stay?

She certainly liked the chocolates.  And she’d liked the kisses: she’d been right there with him.  He wondered, suddenly, if he should simply have carried on: blazed through any barriers and gone all out, all in.  There had been a note in her voice as he left…

He went to the precinct the next day, and everything was just as normal.  But when he knocked on Beckett’s door, early in the evening, there was no answer.  He dawdled home, depressed, and even the Christmas decorations which he was planning to put up – it being December already – didn’t cheer him.  Instead, he made a further large batch of chocolates, decorating them with tiny trees, stars and angels, and stowed them with the rest, for the following night.

* * *

“I thought I’d have to come find you and drag you out of the bullpen,” Lanie opened.  “But here you are.  Did someone give you a shot of domesticity?”

“No.”

She fake fainted.  Beckett growled and glowered, which, as ever, had no effect.

“Let’s go, then.”

The cookery class was full of enthusiastic people (Beckett hated enthusiastic people.  _Except Castle.  You liked him pretty well.  Especially when he was -_  Shut up, she told the brainworm) chattering happily about – oh, God, save her – Christmas.  Christmas cookies, Christmas presents, Christmas trees and, of course, Christmas cakes.  Beckett wondered sourly if she should add Christmas bullets, carefully aimed. 

Before she could act on it, probably by drawing a Christmas tree on her regular bullets, Lanie dragged her over to a table at the back of the room and took the next space.

“This is gonna be great,” she enthused.  “I really wanna know how to do those cute Christmas frostings properly.  Every time I try and pipe a tree it falls over.”

“Lumberjack Lanie?”

“Not the look I’m going for.  A nice sexy lumberjack in my bed, now…”

“Thought you were eyeing up Espo – and more.”

“Off again.  He’s a booty call, not a keeper.”

“Too much information.”

The instructor called the class to order.  She was a woman who didn’t look as if anything as frivolous as a cupcake had ever passed her lips – and if it had, she’d disapproved of it.  Her voice was as tight as her pursed lips, and she evidently ingested less than a thousand calories per day, probably by way of lemon juice.  Not lemonade.  Lemon juice.  Unsweetened.

Beckett liked the look of her instantly, as a wonderful antidote to the excesses of Christmas-tide.  Her view didn’t seem to be reciprocated, but then, not a single attendee had received even the slightest hint of a smile.

“This class is to learn how to make and frost cupcakes,” she pinched out.  “Anyone expecting anything else should leave now.”  No-one moved, possibly because they had been flash-frozen in place.  “The ingredients are in front of you.”  That had been obvious to Beckett’s trained investigative skills from the moment she had arrived, but seemed to be news to one or two attendees.

“We will begin…” and the class began to work.  Lanie mixed her ingredients with aplomb and flair.  Beckett worked with considerable exactitude and care, measuring accurately and mixing precisely as directed.

“You’ve been holding out on me,” Lanie whispered, and received a stony glare from the instructor.  The glare was shortly redirected at a seasonally-dressed twenty-something who was apparently adding snow to his seasonal sweater by means of spreading the flour around.

Their respective cake mixtures were dolloped into their respective trays of cake cases and put into the oven.  Beckett received a small hint of a look of approval as she automatically tidied up her workspace.  Lanie didn’t, and received a cold stare until she began.

“A clean workspace is essential before decorating begins,” the instructor informed the class.  Beckett almost managed to feel smug, since her space was pristine.  She might not be able to bake, but she was neat.  The man with the seasonal jumper appeared to have walked through a blizzard.

The ovens started to beep to signal cooked cakes.  The instructor looked down her beaked nose at them all.

“To check whether your cakes are done, take the skewer which you will find in the drawer below your workspace, pierce the centre of a cake from the top, then withdraw it.  If the skewer is clean, your cakes are ready.  If not, cook them for an extra two minutes and then test again.”

“Mine are done,” Beckett said with some amazement.  She wished she’d known about that test a week ago.  She’d have bought a skewer, which would have been a lot more useful than the rolling pin.  She could have used it to stab Castle.  Not that she was bitter about him stopping.  No, sirree.  Best thing he could have done.  She didn’t want to be in jail for Murder One.  ( _Liar_ , snipped the brainworm.  _You want to stab him because he didn’t carry on.  He knows just how to get to you._ )

Lanie stared at Beckett’s beautifully light-brown cakes.  “Wow.  I thought you couldn’t cook?”

“Beginners’ luck.”

The glare Beckett received in return should have scorched every cake in the room black and charred.  It was almost as good as Beckett’s normal efforts.

“We are gonna talk about this,” Lanie threatened, but was cut off by the instructor.

“While your cakes” – the tone said _failures_ – “are cooling, we will begin to prepare the buttercream frosting.”  She provided instructions which would have been crystal clear to a toddler, in much the same patronising tone.  There was certainly no room for doubt as to what to do.

“Now, separate the mixture into different bowls and add a different colouring to each bowl.  You will see the colourings in front of you.  You may mix colours to produce further hues.  Red and yellow will give orange, for example.”

Definitely used to teaching toddlers.  Even Lanie bridled.

“When your cakes are cool, I will sample one of each of them, and then we will start to frost them.  If you try and frost a warm cake, the frosting will melt, and your decoration will be ruined.”

Beckett kept it simple.  Pink, yellow and white.  Lanie approached it as if she were Picasso, and shortly had bowls in all colours of the (probably-tinsel draped) Christmas rainbow. 

The instructor began at the front.  Beckett and Lanie, naturally, had gravitated to the back, where the cool kids would normally hang out.  Eventually the instructor reached them, by which time her lips were so tightly pinched that they were white.  The collective efforts of the class had not, so far, been impressive.  Beckett resolutely ignored the butterflies in her stomach.  This was not high school and there was no grading system.  The instructor regarded her efforts, and pursed her lips.

“A good colour, and they have risen well.”  She pressed the top of one, and it rebounded.  “As it should be.”  Beckett nearly fainted with relief.  “Now, I shall sample one.”  She cut a narrow slice from one cake, and conveyed it to her thin mouth.  “A good effort.”

Beckett felt as if she’d won the Medal of Honour.  Lanie regarded her with jaundiced cynicism.  “Girl, we are gonna _talk_.”  She didn’t care.  She had achieved acceptable cupcakes.  _This_ year, Montgomery was going to eat his disbelief, with cupcakes.  ( _And you’ll impress Castle_.  Not the point.  _Oh?  I thought that was the whole point._   Not at all.  He wasn’t going to get a single cupcake.  _Bullshit_ , said the worm rudely.  _The moment he turns up with more of those chocolates you’ll give him anything he wants – and I don’t think he means cupcakes.  You sure don’t_.)

While Beckett ignored her brainworm, the instructor had – _mirabile dictum!_ – tried Lanie’s cupcake, and had _smiled_.

“Excellent,” she said.  “Perfectly baked.”  Lanie preened, and exuded smugness.  The instructor stalked back to the front of the largely-intimidated class.  “We will now commence piping.  It is critical to maintain a smooth, even pressure on the piping bag.  Too hard, and it will squirt uncontrollably.”

“Premature ejaculation,” whispered Lanie.   Beckett managed not to splutter.

“Was there something you wanted to ask, Ms Parrish?”

“N-n-no,” Lanie stammered.

“Too light, and no frosting will be extruded.  Consider your designs carefully before selecting the correct nozzle for your piping bag.  Sample pictures are provided around the room.”

Beckett marched around, glaring at the Christmas themed pictures (she was sure that the instructor had had nothing to do with the choice of posters), decided rapidly that simple would undoubtedly be best, and chose a wide nozzle and single colours.  Surprisingly, she found piping relatively easy, although had she thought about the reasons, she would have understood that the need to have a steady gun hand and constant pressure to pull the trigger smoothly would translate very well to ensuring steady piping of frosting.  She achieved a moderately neat swirl on top of each cake, and stood back, well satisfied with her efforts.  Then she took a few photos, to prove to herself tomorrow that it hadn’t all been a dream.

Lanie, of course, had produced an unbelievably ornate – and appallingly Christmassy – decoration on each of her cakes, and was rapidly uploading all of her self-congratulatory photos to Instagram.

“Class dismissed,” said the instructor.  Beckett regarded her with a mixture of awe, admiration, and sheer anger at the tone, which was Schoolmarm-c-1910.  “We shall resume on Friday.”

“Right, Missy I-Don’t-Know-How-To-Bake-Liar, we’re going to a bar.”

“Nope,” Beckett said.  “I’m going to put these in this handy box right here, and then I’m taking them home and eating them.”

“You’ll be sick.”

“Nope.  I’ll be happy.”

“If you want happy cakes, I got a good recipe.”  Beckett boggled.  “Not that I’ve made them.”

“Recently?”

Lanie looked conscious, and Beckett monumentally failed to enquire.  Trying to arrest an ME was sure to result in painful outcomes, mostly for Beckett.  Besides which, she couldn’t truthfully say she’d never tried happy cakes, which Lanie knew.

“If you won’t come to a bar, I’m coming home with you.  And you better have a bottle of wine, because you got some ‘splaining to do.”

Lanie dogged Beckett’s footsteps so closely that she was practically wearing Beckett’s shoes, in order not to be left behind.  Not that leaving her behind would work, since Lanie was perfectly aware of the location of Beckett’s apartment and would merely turn up there and bang on the door until it opened.  Lanie was precisely aware of Beckett’s tolerance level for embarrassment in front of the neighbours, and wasn’t afraid to use it.

“So,” Lanie scowled over the rim of a full glass of wine, “spill.  How does the world’s worst cook suddenly manage to produce an edible cupcake?”

“Not the worst.”

“Wanna bet?”

Beckett scowled back.  “So I bought a book, okay, and tried it.”

Lanie stared.  “You did _what_?  You voluntarily bought a cookbook and _practised_?  Girl, you have got it bad.  Really bad.  The last time you tried to impress a man you were probably in diapers.”

Beckett muttered something under her breath.

“You _so_ are.  This I gotta see.”  Lanie looked around, and spotted the wine bottle still in the kitchen.  “Oooohhhh!  What’s this?  Chocolates?  And you didn’t share – what am I thinking?  You haven’t shared your good chocolate since the first day I met you.”  She opened the box, and scowled at the emptiness within.  “Were they good?”

“Yep.”

“Where did you get them?”

“Present.”

“From who?  Don’t tell me, it was Castle.”

Beckett nodded.

“Where did Castle get them?”

“Made them.”

( _You know, all these terse answers just prove you’re sulking because Lanie’s right_ , the brainworm smirked.  Beckett endeavoured to autopsy it – in vivo.  It wiggled out of the way.)

This time Lanie outright gawped.  “Writer-Boy made you chocolates?”

“He was practising for the precinct home-baking for Christmas.”

“Chocolates?  The hell with the precinct, send him to the morgue!”

“You keep your ME mitts off _my_ chocolate!”

“Ooooohhhhh.  Someone’s getting all possessive.  Is that just the chocolates?”  Beckett blushed brighter than a supernova.  “ _Ooooohhhhh_!  What _have_ you been doing, Kate?  Or should that be _who_?”

“Didn’t.”

Lanie downed her wine and refilled it, bringing the bottle back with her.  “What do you mean _didn’t_?  Castle _finally_ made a move and you _didn’t_ jump his bones?  What is wrong with you?  Are you sick?  Are you dead?  Did you get replaced by an alien?”

Presumably Lanie’s options were in order of awfulness.  Although, since they all meant that Beckett could ignore Christmas, they weren’t _that_ awful.

“Didn’t get the chance,” Beckett muttered into her wine.

Lanie’s mouthful of wine hit her knees and the table.  “This I gotta hear,” she said as she mopped up.  “Start talking, and I’ll keep pouring.”

Beckett – reluctantly – provided an extremely abbreviated version of events, which notably failed to mention the extent of the kissing, any of the, um, touching, and certainly didn’t go near being erotically fed chocolates by Castle.  “And then he scuttled off like a drunk crab,” she wound up crossly, and drained the wine.

“Kissed you and ran off?  Sounds like grade school.  He _li-ikes_ you,” she singsonged.  Her face changed.  “If you threatened him and that’s why he ran off, I’ll hogtie you and dump you in the Hudson.”

“Nope,” muttered Beckett.

“Well, _finally_.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You finally saw what’s been under your oblivious nose since you first met him.  You were made for each other, girl, and now you’ve got him.”

( _See, told you so_.  That was entirely unnecessary commentary from the brainworm.  It wasn’t even true.  _Is so_.)

“Now, why’d he run off?”

“I don’t know.  Playing dumb games.  Don’t care.”

“Su-u-ure,” Lanie drawled.  “That’s why you’re as grumpy as the Grinch.”

“The Grinch had the right idea.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah.  You hate Christmas, yada, yada, yada.  Listen up, or I’m gonna slap you.  Go see Castle, and take those cakes with you.”

“Nope.”

“Why not?”

“He ran out on me.  I’m not going chasing after him.”

“Bit more than kissing going on?”

“Shut up.”

Lanie acquired a profoundly satisfied expression.  “Bout time.”

“Shut.  Up.”

“You’d cure all that bad temper if you burnt up the sheets a bit.  It’s suppressed sexual frustration.”

“You’re an ME, not a shrink.”

“Okay, in ME terms, go get laid.”

“Lanie!”

Lanie merely smirked, and finished her wine.  “Since you won’t take my good advice, I’m going to take my cupcakes and go home.  See you Friday, at the next class.”

“See you,” Beckett said, and sighed with relief as the door shut behind her sometimes-but-definitely-not-when-telling-her-to-get-laid friend.  She’d have been a lot less relieved if she’d known that Lanie’s first act after getting out of earshot was to call Castle.

“So you and Kate finally got it together, and you ran out on her?  What’s the story?  You two should be burning up the sheets.”

“Hey, Lanie,” Castle said resignedly.

“Well?”

“That’s not how it was.”  Well, not much.  “I came round earlier but she wasn’t in.”

“She’s upset.”

“Uh?”

“But I’m sure that enough chocolate would solve that pretty quickly.”

“Huh.”

“And if it works, I want a boxful.”

“If it works, you can have three boxfuls,” Castle said expansively.

“Done.

Castle arranged a large number of chocolates – heavy on the coffee varieties – into a beautiful, multi-layered box, decorated it with a crimson, Christmas themed ribbon, curled the ends so that they looked thoroughly professional, and was on his way to Beckett’s apartment less than fifteen minutes later.  A judicious incentive for the cab driver ensured that he reached the apartment astonishingly quickly.

Beckett didn’t feel like seeing Castle – she was quite sure it was Castle knocking, and even more sure that Lanie had interfered.  On the other hand, there was the prospect of more delicious chocolate, and if he hadn’t brought _enough_ chocolate to fulfil the requirements of a proper apology for disappearing like a scalded cat, she could keep what had been brought and send him home till he’d made enough.  A year’s supply would do.

She opened the door.

“I didn’t mean to upset you but it was going so fast and I didn’t want you to do anything you didn’t want to so I thought we had to stop but Lanie said you were upset so I brought you all the ones you liked most and can you please let me in so I can put them down and stop glaring at me like that” – Castle ran out of breath.  Beckett boggled, then caught sight of the enormous box and removed it from him, cradling it possessively.

“You can come in.”  He followed.  “Coffee?”  The enormous box was definitely a proper apology, and Castle’s incoherent prolixity meant that he was considerably discombobulated.  Beckett considered.  Chocolates…mmmm.  But…

She decided.

“Beck – mmmmfffffff.”  A moment later she allowed him to raise his head.  “Guess that means we’re okay?”

“Chocolate is always a good start.”  She turned to make the coffee, and found herself turned back.

“C’mere,” Castle purred, and returned the favour with interest.  “Coffee can wait.”  He kissed her thoroughly and with enthusiasm.  She curved against him, and let him take and roam as he pleased.  It certainly pleased her.

It did not please her when he stopped, without attempting non-osculatory explorations.  She humphed.  It was _nice_ being tucked into his broad chest and firm, enclosing arms.  He was just the right size, and applied just the right amount of strength.

“I thought you might want a chocolate.”  Castle reached for the box.  Since her arms were confined by his, she couldn’t stop him.  They were _her_ chocolates.  “Tree, star, angel or holly berry?”

“You what now?”

“It’s December.  Christmas-time.  The chocolates have Christmas patterns on them” – he stopped suddenly.  “What’s this?” 

“Huh?”  Beckett managed a strictly limited turn, and saw the direction of his gaze.  “Oh.”

“Oh what?”  Castle snagged the box of cupcakes, and opened it.  “Ooohhhh.  You’ve been cooking too.  Can I have one? I didn’t know you could bake – you never said,” he accused. 

Beckett tensed, very slightly.  “Yeah,” she replied.  “You can have one.”  No doubt it wouldn’t meet the Castle cordon bleu standard, but the instructor had liked it.  Anyway, he shouldn’t be spotting the cakes, he should be letting her eat her chocolate.

( _No, he should be kissing you.  In bed._   She choked the worm with cupcake frosting.  It swallowed the lot and demanded more.)


	4. Chapter 4

While Beckett was endeavouring to assassinate the damned brainworm, Castle had acquired a cake and taken a bite.  She sniggered.

“What?”

“You’ve got frosting on your nose.”  He swiped at it.  “Better,” she approved.

“It’s good,” he said through a mouthful of cake.  “C’n I get another?”

“Didn’t you have dinner?” Beckett snipped.  She hadn’t eaten any of her cakes yet, and _she_ hadn’t had dinner.

“Yes, so?  It’s cake.”  He grinned like a five-year old.  “I can always manage to eat more cake.”

Abruptly, the import of his words dawned on Beckett.  “You want more?”

“Sure.  It’s good.  Bit plain – couldn’t you put a Christmas design on it? – but really nice.”

“More?” she squeaked.

“Yes.  More.  You’re not going to ration me, are you?  That wouldn’t be nice.  Enjoyable things should be enjoyed as much as possible.”

“You stopped kissing me,” Beckett’s mouth said without input from her brain.  “Didn’t you enjoy that?”

Castle’s face instantly became intent and predatory.  “So much,” he murmured.  “But that sort of enjoyment should be anticipated.  Savoured.  Taken slowly.”  His arms tightened around her, one hand slipping up to cradle her skull.  “Like this,” he continued, and kissed her.  Slowly, deeply, and with expertise.  And this time, he didn’t stop until Beckett’s stomach rumbled loudly.  “Didn’t you get dinner?”

“Nope.”

“Tut-tut.  You shouldn’t miss meals.  It’s not good for you.  You’ll get thin and waste away and then what’ll I cuddle?”

“Your pillow,” Beckett snarked. 

“You’d be so much nicer,” Castle oozed.  ( _He’d be a good pillow_ , the brainworm also oozed.  _Nice and warm and, ahem, firm._ )  “See, you fit just perfectly.”  He drew her closer into him, which Beckett wouldn’t have thought possible, and tucked her in.  She did fit perfectly.  ( _He’d fit perfectly into you_ , sniggered the brainworm, with a filthy smirk.)  A kiss landed on top of her head, which was all very cute but not where kisses should be landing _right now_.

“We should get you dinner,” he said.

“Let me eat cake,” Beckett snipped.

“Your name’s Kate, not Marie-Antoinette.  Though it would be a lovely middle name, and you’d definitely be totally cute in those shepherdess dresses and I could get you one for Christmas though maybe a bit more like the Fragonard ones than royalty” – he stopped.  Beckett’s million-watt glare was currently destroying small countries and the occasional passing asteroid.  “Okay, cake.”  He let go of her.

Beckett produced two plates and, looking at her thick-piled frosting, forks – she had no desire to imitate Castle, especially by allowing frosting to decorate her nose – and then took them and the cake box to the table.  Castle made the coffee, which was likely rather presumptuous but seemed appropriate to the moment.

There was a short silence, during which Beckett disposed of three cakes in swift succession and chased them with two full mugs of coffee.  (Her French press held six mugsful.  It had never seemed too large to her.)  Castle had proved his earlier point by eating another one with evident enjoyment, and was currently scraping up every last molecule of buttercream frosting and licking it off the fork.  The sight of the tip of his tongue investigating the crevices of the fork was inducing very strange sensations in the general vicinity ( _Ha!_ gloated the brainworm.  _I know exactly where you mean_ ) of Beckett’s stomach.

“What’s up?” Castle asked.

“Huh?  Nothing.”  In fact, Beckett was thoroughly impressed with – and astounded at – the edibility of her cakes.

“You look surprised.  Why on earth would you be surprised by your…own…cooking – oh.  You never cook.  You’re famous for never cooking.  You _boast_ about never cooking” –

“I do not!”

“Do so.  Anyway… have you ever cooked cupcakes before?”

“Yes.”

Castle looked inquisitively at her.  “When?”

“Plenty of times.”  Well, twice before was plenty – plenty enough for her.  “But I hadn’t piped frosting till these ones.”  Which carefully gave nothing away, while being perfectly honest.

“Well, they’re good.  Will you make them for the precinct?”

“I guess so.”  Which also didn’t admit that she couldn’t actually bake anything else.  Maybe next time she’d try cookies – in a century or so.  She ate another cake.  It wasn’t exactly a healthy dinner, but it was food, it was nice, and it was there.

“Mmm,” Castle said happily.  “Are you done?”

Beckett put her plate down, and poured herself more coffee, then topped off Castle’s mug.  “Done with the cakes.  I’ll be ill if I eat any more.”

“Can I tempt you to a chocolate?”  His eyes glinted mischievously.

“Chocolate is not a temptation.  Chocolate is a fundamental human right.”  Castle’s mouth opened, and closed again in a severe attack of common sense.  “And since the chocolates were a present, I’ll still have them in the morning.”

“No, no, no.  You can’t be deprived of a fundamental human right.”  Castle hopped up, bounced to the kitchen, and came back with the delightfully oversized box.  He flipped the lid open, and considered for only a microsecond.  “This one,” he said, and slowly conveyed it to Beckett’s lips.  They opened.  Beckett’s brain had absolutely nothing to do with the act, nor with the chewing, the savouring, or the unwitting sigh of utter pleasure.

Neither of their brains had anything to do with Castle slowly leaning in and taking her mouth.  That was all pure instinct and sheer desire.  Beckett’s niggle that he didn’t really want her, buried under enough chocolate to suffocate an elephant, dissolved in the heat of his kiss.  His hands sneaked under her top, and left sparks running all through her skin and down her nerves.  The touch sizzled.  Her share of the kiss turned hard and predatory, overtaking Castle’s seductive approach and conquering him in one swift attack.  It lit him up, and his embrace became a cage: his hand sliding into her hair and re-angling her head: her body pulled against his, her mouth invaded, raided, and ravaged.

Breathing quickened, fabric rustled: the chocolates and the cakes sat, ignored, on the table.  Beckett’s busy fingers forced their way between their bodies and undid Castle’s shirt, his questing hand pulled her top off over her head with only the briefest lift of his mouth from hers.  Hands touched frantically, clutching and grasping: lips clashed and teeth nipped, tongues twisting; slim fingernails dug and broad digits pressed.

Castle fell back on the couch and pulled Beckett with him, never releasing her mouth; his hand slipping down over her back to her taut rear and pushing her into his rolling hips; she opened over him, their lower bodies still fully clad, and hard weight rubbed against the hot cleft.  He tried to roll them, and was stopped by the back of the couch.

At that point Beckett realised what they were doing, and lifted off.

“Come back.”

She stared down at him.  “What just happened?”

“Well, when two people really, really like each other” –

She growled.  Castle pulled her head down and kissed her again, till the growl became a purr.  That hadn’t quite been what she had meant to happen.  ( _But you liked it_ , the worm wiggled.)  He brought her head down on to his shoulder and nuzzled into her hair.

“Usually, I call it kissing,” he said.

“Usually?  You do this often?”

“I’m forty, not four.  Of course I’ve kissed women before.  Just not recently.”

Beckett stared.  Castle coloured deep red.  “Did you mean to say that?” she asked, astounded.

“Uh…um… uh…”  He gave up on words and kissed her again.  Unfortunately, Beckett now had an investigative line to pull, and lifted off and away.  ( _You know that lets him stare at your breasts?_   Of course she did.  He’d be too distracted by them to be evasive.  It was a very pretty bra.)

“How not-recently?” 

Castle wibbled incoherently.  Beckett wiggled, which produced a very nice shimmy of the curves above her waist.  His eyes widened and darkened, and he swelled where she was planted over his pelvis.  She shimmied again, rather lower down.

“Er-urgh…”  Another shimmy, slow and sensual.  She bit her lip, and soothed it with her tongue, then had a better idea and reached over to take a chocolate.  Rather than bite it, she slid it partway between her lips, paused, and let the tip of her tongue peek out around it.  Castle couldn’t take his eyes from it.  His hands clamped around her hips.  She sucked the chocolate in with a tiny, wetly obscene sound and a hollowing of her cheeks.

“How not-recently?” she repeated, and shimmied.

“April…” 

She almost choked on the chocolate.  “April?”  That was when his ex had shown up.  He hadn’t kissed anyone since _April_?  What the _hell_?  She sat across his thighs, completely blindsided, and reflexively swallowed the chocolate without really tasting it.

“Uh… Beckett?  Beckett?  Beckett!”  Castle managed to sit up, with her still straddling him, and wobble her shoulders.  “Earth to Beckett?”  It had no effect.  “I’m eating the chocolates.”

“Get your paws off the chocolates!”  She abruptly returned to the real world.  “ _My_ chocolates.”

“Wow.  You’re really possessive about what’s yours, aren’t you?”  His eyes were scorching.  “That’s really hot.  But I do need to correct one thing.  They’re my chocolates.  I brought them.”

“You gave them to me.  So they’re mine.  It was a present.”

“It’s not Christmas yet…” Castle trailed, exceedingly interested in this unwontedly possessive Beckett.  Now if he could simply convince her to be that possessive about him, he’d be happy.  He simply hadn’t meant to admit that he hadn’t kissed anyone seriously since Meredith.  Beckett wasn’t shy of taking any advantage she could get.

“Christmas is a waste of time,” Beckett said crossly.  “Over-consumerised” –

“Is that a word?”

“Yes.  Over-consumerised, expensive, and pointless.  Nobody believes in the message, just in the shopping.”

“You _don’t_ like shopping?  Every woman I’ve ever met adores shopping.”

“You’ve been meeting the wrong women.  Or you have a job as the doorman at Macy’s.”

Castle snickered.   “But do you honestly hate shopping?  Because I’ve never seen so many shoes and coats as you have.”

“One shopping visit, when the sales start.  And I take good care of them.”  She grinned sardonically.  “I always treat the bloodstains with cold water.”

He snickered again, then turned serious.  “You don’t like Christmas?”

“Nope.”

“Why?  What’s not to like?  There’s good food, company, decorations, parties, presents, snow…”

“Like you said.”

“You don’t like any of that?”

“I like the good food, but I can get that any time.  I can get company any time.”  Castle regarded her closely, and Beckett found her cheeks heating.  “I can,” she argued.

“You just don’t.  Criminals don’t count.”

“You’re technically a criminal.”

“I am not!” Castle squawked, highly offended.

“You’ve been arrested.  More than once.”

“The horse enjoyed it.  And I was never charged.  Well, the charges were dropped.  So I’m not a criminal.”  Beckett raised her eyebrows.  “Though I am criminally sexy,” he grinned.  She groaned.  Then, in an effort to be distracting, she wriggled.  Even flattering his already oversized ego was better than talking about Christmas.

“So,” she purred, and Castle’s eyes darkened, “if you haven’t kissed anyone properly since April, hadn’t you better make sure you’re doing it right?”

“How will I know?” he flirted.

“I’ll tell you.”

“Will you?  I don’t think you’ll be able to talk.”

“Who said anything about telling you in words?” Beckett flipped back.

“Mm.  If that’s the way you wanna play” – and he hauled her in and demonstrated kisses.  Very definitely proper kisses.  Talking wasn’t an option.  His hands wandered from the bare skin of her lower back upwards to the catch of her bra, which promptly opened.  The kisses wandered down her throat to the centre of her clavicles, and then to the centre of her cleavage.  Castle had turned them slightly and dipped her back for better access, but discomfort was overtaking lust.  She sat up, and stretched her spine.

“Come back.”

“Not comfy.”

His eyes gleamed.  Suddenly, all his usual silliness had fallen away, and the wholly adult man behind the boyish façade was firmly in evidence.  “Then let’s find somewhere more comfortable.” 

He stood up, which forced her to stand as well – oh.  She wasn’t standing.  At least, her feet weren’t on the floor.  She wrapped her legs around his waist and her arms around his neck, and marvelled at the unusual and extremely arousing sensation of simply being picked up and carried.  She nipped at his ear, and he growled deep in his chest and brought her closer.

“I’ve caught you,” he rasped.  “Mine.”  Still holding her as if she weighed nothing, he took her mouth with authority and rakish verve.  Sensation overwhelmed her, and all she could do was cling on, drowning without a struggle in the onslaught.  She barely noticed as he laid her down on the bed, stroking down her arms and taking her bra away: following with his lips, straight down to the button of her pants.  She squirmed.  “Something you’d like?  ‘Cause there’s someone I’d like.”  The voice stroked her nerves from the inside outward.  He undid the button; the zipper zinged; she gasped and he growled and then took her pants and panties down in one smooth, seductive motion. 

“I’m still hungry,” he breathed, and fell to: broad shoulders spreading her, firm hands gripping her hips against her increasingly frantic movement; soft, mobile lips working with tantalising tongue and the scrape of teeth to destroy her cool composure and leave her writhing and gasping; small moans and he didn’t _stop_ and it was too much and not enough and _more_ and _Castle!_ she cried and came on his name.

He slithered up the sheets with a satisfied, wolfish expression, and wrapped her in against him.  “I love desserts,” he murmured.  “Especially if they come in pretty packages.”  He petted, gently sensual, not quite openly erotic.  “I love unwrapping pretty packages and finding presents.”

Beckett snuggled around him, twining her legs into his and finding the rhythmic beat of his heart under her ear reassuringly soothing. She didn’t want to think about anything: just enjoy the moment.  In a moment, she’d wriggle into a more useful position.  In a moment…

Castle peered awkwardly down at Beckett’s dark head, which lay heavy on his chest, and smiled fondly.  She was asleep, and it was at once seriously cute and totally flattering.  He was also precisely where he’d wanted to be: in bed with her.  Okay, so it had all exploded rather faster than he had intended, but he had every intention of sticking around and slow hadn’t exactly worked out well for either of them.

Chocolate and cake, on the other hand, had worked out perfectly.

He realised that he still had his pants on, which seemed a bit unfair, and then had a considerably more interesting thought.  He slipped out of the bed, into the main room, and came back again.  Then he divested himself of his pants and socks and slipped back into bed, gathering in his delightful Beckett-bundle and noticing, still smugly, that he’d exhausted her.  She was absolutely sound asleep.  He resisted the temptation to wake her, but not the temptation to play with her hair.  He loved the scent of her hair, and he’d never had the chance to find out if it was as silky as it looked, especially now that she was growing out that short, spiky cut.  He curled it round his fingers, and noticed with interest that it stayed curled.  She kept that well-hidden.  Her hair was always as controlled as the rest of her, in public.

He liked her uncontrolled.  Eating too much cake or too many chocolates; curly hair not model-smooth; and especially wildly uncontrolled with him, in bed.  It was a facet of Beckett which he’d never seen: she was rarely anything but cool.

Which, he thought, made it especially surprising that she had been a little flustered and a lot flattered that he’d liked the cakes.  They’d been good, too.  Plain, but good.  His busy mind began to process.  Beckett hated cooking – but Beckett had said she’d made cupcakes – quote – plenty of times.  Beckett also hated looking dumb, though from the gossip round the bullpen she didn’t look stupid when she turned up with another year’s supply of burnt mince pies, more…um…annoyed.  Nobody had ever had the guts – or lack of brain – to challenge her.  Hang on.  That totally didn’t match up.  If she could make competent cupcakes, why’d she take in burnt mince pies?  That didn’t make sense at all. 

Castle rapidly reached the conclusion that Beckett had only decided to do cupcakes very recently.  The question was why – and the only answer was that he was there this year and hadn’t been previously.  He was as conscious as she of the unspoken competition between them: solving cases, spotting the killer, wits and words and even shooting.  Christmas cooking seemed to have joined the list. 

He smiled happily.  He’d won, whatever the outcome, because there he was in bed with a naked Beckett, who was tucked up against him and completely at ease.  He cuddled her closer, pulling her up on to his chest, and sank into peaceful reverie.

Beckett awoke with a start, unused to another’s breathing or bulk in her bed.  Huh – oh, Castle.  That was okay then… what?  She fell asleep?  What a waste of time.

“Hey,” he breathed into her hair.  She wriggled a little further up his body to lean up and look down at him.  His eyes were sleepily sexy, the warm blue currently tending to hot as he surveyed her form.  “Gorgeous.  C’mere.” 

He lazily pulled her down over him, and simply kissed her, hands roaming her back and rear, apparently perfectly content to be under her.  She cupped his face, rubbing across the hint of scruffy stubble with her thumbs, and kissed him in return, smooth and sensual, gentle, but with intent.  Castle rumbled comfortably, and then rolled her over so that he was leaning up and _not_ kissing her, which was _not fair_.  He slipped a strong thigh between her legs, an arm under her neck, cuddled her into him – good – and then let go again, which was definitely doubleplusungood. 

“Close your eyes,” he enticed.

“Why?”

“Close your eyes, and you’ll see.”

“That’s childish.”  Castle pressed her against him.  He didn’t feel like a child.  “Oh, okay.  If you must.”

“Don’t you like surprises?”

“No.”

“But don’t you like surprise presents?”

“No.  They’d be disappointing.  Nice, organised list.  That way everyone gets what they want and like and they’re all happy.”

“I love surprises,” Castle said.  “They’re always exciting.  How can you not like them?”

“Because they’re always a disappointment.”

“I was a surprise,” he said provocatively.

“Nope.  You were predictable.”

“Predictable?” Castle gasped.  “I’m not _predictable_.”

“Yep, you are.  Flirted, hit on me, didn’t get the right response, stalked me under the guise of research.”

“Oh.”  Then he perked up.  “But aren’t you glad I did?”  She quirked an eyebrow.  “Don’t be mean.  I _know_ you are.”  The other eyebrow rose.  “You’re here.”  He wrapped her in again, kissing her forcefully between words.  “If you weren’t, I wouldn’t be here.  I’d be dead.”  He kissed her some more.  She didn’t have much of an argument against him.

“Now, c’mon.  Lemme give you a nice surprise.”

She wriggled.  “That’s not a surprise in your pocket, that’s you pleased to see me.”

“That wouldn’t be a surprise, my dear detective.”  She blinked.  “I’m _always_ pleased to see you.”  He smiled down at her.  “Especially when you’re dressed – or undressed – like this.”  His free hand, previously resting on her waist, detoured northward, then south.  “But I do have a nice surprise for you, so c’mon, close your eyes.”

“Oh, _okay_.  Five-year old.”  She shut her eyes.


	5. Chapter 5

Castle reached over to the nightstand and randomly picked up a chocolate from the box, then carefully rubbed it over Beckett’s lips.  “Keep your eyes shut,” he said.  Her tongue peeped out, and tasted.

“Chocolate,” she purred.  Her lips opened.  Castle drew the chocolate back slightly, and lifted her to follow it.  He reckoned he might achieve a moment of teasing.

He reckoned wrong.  Beckett sat up through sheer will and, no doubt, a hundred abs crunches per day, grabbed the chocolate – and dusted it across his mouth.  When his lips parted, she leaned in, whisked the chocolate out of the way, and kissed him firmly.

Then she ate the chocolate herself, which hadn’t exactly been the plan, and smirked at him.  “Nice.”  He pouted at her.  She leaned back to him, and kissed him again, tasting of chocolate and praline and smugness.  “Very nice.”

Castle smiled back, dangerously.  “Nice?  I think we can do a little better than that.”  He slid over her, taking her wrists and pinning her hands by her head, settling into the cradle of her hips and pushing just a little, rubbing the fabric of his boxers and the hard bulge beneath them against her.

“Can you?” she husked.  “Better than chocolate?”

“You liked it just as much earlier.”  Masculine appreciation shone in his face.  “But I think we can do better.”  He shifted his hips again, and she arched a little into them.  His hands still encircled her wrists, weight on his elbows, and then he lowered to her mouth and began to take it: softly inexorable, requiring entry.  She succumbed without a fight: hands clasping his, lips open and accepting, a woman who was perfectly happy to be pleased and pleasured.

Beckett was quite content to see where Castle intended to take her.  He’d done pretty well the first time, and she’d return the favour – just not quite yet.  She was simply going to enjoy him enjoying her.

Her good intentions lasted, oh, at least a full minute.  Then they were scattered to the four winds when he moved off her mouth and down to her breasts.  That _mouth_.  It should be illegal.  Except for her enjoyment.  Why did he spend so much time talking when he could be doing _that_ instead?  She buried her hands in his hair and held him precisely where she wanted him.  Fortunately, that seemed to be where he wanted to be.  She released her death-grip on his head, and, through a fog of arousal, noticed something wrong.  He had clothes on.  Well, one garment.  Still, he shouldn’t have any garments on at all.  She reached down, stroking over his sides and then to his adorable ass ( _adorable, is it?  Awww._   She stomped on the brainworm.  It re-inflated without any damage), taking the unwanted boxers with her as she went, and essaying a small stroke of a very large asset.

 _That_ was frustrating – ohhhhh, do that again – she couldn’t reach any further down, and she also couldn’t sit up because Castle’s breadth was pinning her down and he’d caught her hands again but this time they were above her head in one of his and the damn boxers were gone because she could feel him hot and hard and (most importantly) _naked_ against her thigh so she tried to wriggle to bring him where he should be but he wasn’t having it. 

He stopped kissing her breasts.  “Want something?” he growled.  “Because I want you.  Just like this: open and uncontrolled and naked and with _me_.  Mine.”  He committed another illegally sexy act on her breasts, and stopped again.  She emitted a whimper.  She _never_ whimpered.  Ever.  ( _You do now_ , the brainworm smirked.)

“I want chocolate,” she fibbed.  She had to get some game back somehow.  Whimpers were simply _not on_ , however good he was.

Castle obviously heard the untruth.  “Do you?  Let’s just see what we can do about that.”  He stretched, and secured a chocolate without giving her a chance to move.  “Chocolate.”  He paused.  “You know, I like chocolate too.”  The chocolate slid along her lips without waiting for long enough for her to suck it in.  Learning from the previous experience, he was also still holding her hands above her head and slightly pressing down on her.  “No stealing the chocolate this time.”  He traced it over her lips once more, slowly, allowing it to melt slightly and giving her tongue time to taste it.  When he took it away, there was a smudge of chocolate on her mouth.  He dipped, cleaned it away with his own mouth, and followed up with a deep kiss.

“Chocolate, or kisses?”

That was an unfair choice, especially when his hips shifted slightly and he rubbed against her.

“Both.”

He smiled.  “Sure,” he murmured, and even the voice was seeping straight through her skin to her core.  The chocolate glided over her lips again, and then his covered hers with the sweet taste dissolving in both their mouths and he kissed her again: strong and sure and searching out every sensitive point, releasing her hands and cupping her face.   She forgot about game, or chocolate, or anything that wasn’t his hard body pressing on her and his firm mouth tasting her.  Her hands ran over his back and the firm ass, glided around and under to take him in hand and circle him, guide him home.  He thrust, and she opened, and then they moved together and then the world was simply him with her and then they became one.

“Wow,” Castle murmured, his breathing still fast, his heart pounding under her ear, only just beginning to slow.  “I think that was better than chocolate.”

“I don’t know,” Beckett murmured, silky sin slithering through every word.  “I think we should test it again.”  She snagged a chocolate, slid it part way between her lips, rolling them to be on top, and then kissed him.  He bit the chocolate in half, pushed her gently back by the shoulders so she was sitting straddling him, and smiled sweetly. 

“Delicious.”

“You – you stole my chocolate!”

“Uh?  I ate the half you gave me.”

“Thief,” Beckett sulked.  “That was mine.”

“Maybe you shouldn’t have put it in my mouth, then.  I like chocolate too.”  He pulled her back down and cuddled her.  “Come here.  It’s much nicer to have you tucked in.”  He smirked.  “Especially when you’re naked.”

Beckett humphed, with less ire behind it than there should have been.  She was feeling ridiculously soft and un-snarky.  Normally if someone had stolen _her_ chocolate ( _or candy, or anything sweet.  I’m surprised you’ve got any teeth left, still more that you’ve got no fillings_.) she would have shot them.  But then, if she shot Castle, there wouldn’t be any more chocolate, because he’d be dead.  He did make excellent chocolate.  Hmm.  Dilemma.

She stopped thinking about the problem, and snuggled in.  Punishments for theft of chocolate would wait.  Some thought was clearly required, in order to find an appropriate consequence.

Which was _not_ going to include Castle getting to snuggle her in like a teddy bear.  ( _Liar_ , was all the brainworm said.  Beckett wiggled to become totally comfortable in Castle’s arms.)  Her firm intentions dissolved as he petted down her back and then played with tendrils of her hair.  Fidgeting, it seemed, had some advantages.  Now if he would only _not_ try and imbue her with the non-existent magic of Christmas (the magic of chocolate would be just fine) then all would be well.

He was humming.  Which might have been okay, but he was humming _All I Want For Christmas (is you)_.  No no no no no.  No Christmas songs.  She elbowed him.

“Ooofff.  What was that for?” he complained.

“No dumb Christmas songs.”

“But it’s Christmas.  You’ve got to have Christmas songs.”

“Nope.”

“You don’t sing carols?”

“Nope.”  That was not entirely true.  Beckett’s one concession to Christmas was to attend the midnight service on Christmas Eve, when she sang every carol and hymn in a full-throated mezzo.  That fitted her principles.  Dumb pop songs did not.

“Don’t believe you,” Castle singsonged.  “I bet you do.”  His eyes lit with mischief, and something much more.  “Come to the midnight service with me.  All the old favourites.  Very traditional.”  Something about the sable murmur bypassed Beckett’s brain to go straight to her emotions.  “Even if you don’t usually sing, you must have learned them all at school.  They’ll come straight back to you.  Childhood memories do.”

“Especially if you haven’t actually left childhood,” she snarked.

“Christmas deserves childlike wonder and joy,” Castle said, suddenly and shockingly serious.  “It’s the only time of year that something greater than ourselves steps in.”

Beckett dropped her eyes.  She wouldn’t confess it, but he was right.  “Okay.  I’ll come with you.”  Castle’s answering hug nearly broke her ribs.

“You’ll love it.  I’ll send you the details.”  He actually sat up and started looking about him for his phone.

“Now?”

He turned back to her, and refocused.  “Maybe not,” he breathed.  “Maybe my attention should be right here,” and he rolled them over and rose over her and then kissed her long and deep.  When he’d finished owning her mouth he moved round to nip at her ear and kiss a spot where the nerve must have come to the surface, and then returned to her mouth without a pause.

And then he moved down to her breasts, again, and did sinfully sexy things that should have him arrested and imprisoned ( _yeah, right_ , sniggered the brainworm _, in your bedroom_ ) because she couldn’t get herself organised to do some sinfully sexy things right back at him; and then moved downwards a little further, lazily, slowly, leaving anticipation singing through her body.

“Who needs chocolate?” he asked rhetorically, and struck.

“ _Castle!_ ”  Oh God.  Oh _fuck_.  His mouth.  Oh God.  How did he _do_ that?  Tongues – _oh God, Castle!_ – shouldn’t be able to – _oh fuck do it again_ – do that.  She stopped thinking.  Words became incoherent noise became simply his name and her body under his mouth and _ohhhhhhh_.  World?  What world?

“See?  Better than chocolate.”

“As good as,” Beckett contradicted.

“I could make you admit it,” Castle tried.

“Go for it,” Beckett said happily.  “I’ll just lie back and enjoy it.”

Castle growled.  Beckett smirked.  Chocolate and cunnilingus might not be a restaurant pairing (though there were certain specialist clubs that Vice knew about…) but it worked for her.

“If you’re good, I might even share the chocolates,” she enticed.

“You only want me for my chocolate-making prowess,” he pouted.

“Not just your chocolates.”  She reached down and achieved an extraordinarily arousing touch which made her meaning perfectly clear. 

Castle spluttered.  “I feel so used,” he humphed, but his eyes crinkled and his lips quirked. 

Beckett simply reached down, took a firm grip of his ears, and used them to encourage him to arrive at her face.  Conveniently, that left other bits of him firmly positioned right where she wanted them.  Luckily, he seemed to want them there just as much.  She wriggled.

“Definitely used,” he sighed, and sank into her.  She’d have made a snappy retort, but he felt so good that she forgot to be snarky.  He fitted just right, and he knew exactly what to do.  So, of course, did she.  And they did, until they soared and flew and came together.

Eventually, of course, he had to go home.  Equally of course, he left the chocolates.

“Till tomorrow.”

“See you in the precinct.”  He regarded her soulfully.  “And tomorrow night, but not Friday,” she conceded.  The soulful look acquired a hint of dolefulness which was totally unjustified.  “Seeing Lanie.”  Which was true, but materially incomplete and misleading.  He smiled broadly, caught her in and kissed her soundly, then bounced out the door.

* * *

The baking class proceeded much as the first one had, though Lanie acquired yet more merit badges from the acidulous instructor by producing perfect cakes and then frosting them in opulently extravagant swirls.  Beckett stuck to the basics, and took home her box of cakes with some contentment.

A Thai takeout with some salad eaten, she sampled one of her cakes.  They tasted pretty good, and they didn’t come with excessive Christmas decorations.  On the other hand, she couldn’t keep eating six cakes twice a week.  She really would get fat, or she’d have to spend hours exercising.  It just seemed such a shame to waste them – oh.  She could give some to her dad.  That would do.  He’d like them, they wouldn’t be wasted, everybody happy.  Efficient, and logical.  She divided the cakes into two boxes, and whisked out with one to go see her father.

When she returned, buoyed on her dad’s appreciation – he’d eaten one straight away, and his eyes had widened – she had another cake, and tried to get comfortable with her excellent coffee and really quite good cake.  It wasn’t working.  That wasn’t logical or efficient.

( _You know what’s missing_.  Don’t.  _Do so.  You want Castle.  Etc._   Don’t.  _Liar.  Just call him already._   Beckett strangled the worm with a handy charging cable.  It tied it into a bow around its non-existent neck, and took a theatrically exaggerated knee.)

Instead of calling Castle, which was quite illogically needy and anyway surely he wanted time with his family when he’d seen her all day at the precinct ( _but you didn’t get kisses at the precinct_ ), she went to the fridge and selected two – only two – of the huge box of chocolates.  Unfortunately, eating them with due attention to their perfection reminded her of chocolate flavoured kisses and foreplay, which had _not_ been the intention. 

She switched on the TV, to distract herself, and found only tacky Christmas movies or Christmas-themed episodes of shows.  That was ridiculous.  Even the sports channels had elements of Christmas, and she couldn’t bear the news, which also had dumb Christmas-related stories.  Christmas was a con.

( _You agreed to go to the midnight service_.  That was different.  Very different.  It had meaning.  Shopping did not have meaning, until the bills came due.)

She supposed that she could also distract herself by finding her small Christmas tree, and did so.  That occupied a whole fifteen minutes, including putting on the tiny baubles and plugging it in.  It glowed cheerfully through its fibre-optic ends.  It was tasteful, efficient, and logical.

Somehow, it didn’t seem like enough: a small light almost overpowered by the undecorated spaces of her apartment.  She humphed, and ignored the nagging feeling.  Weren’t home-made cakes quite enough?  She didn’t need tons of tinsel, or to wallow in wreaths, which only left dead leaves on the floor.  Her presents had all been purchased, and only awaited their wrappings.  It was all fine.

Beckett sat bolt upright.  It was all Castle’s fault.  Endlessly waffling about his Christmas plans and decorations and excess.  Well, she wasn’t going to be invaded by his over-the-top ideas.  Christmas was over-rated and over-hyped, and she wasn’t going to play.

On which note, she washed and went to bed with a good book – Stephen King’s _Firestarter_ , which had absolutely nothing at all to do with Christmas – and didn’t think about Castle or Christmas at all.  She had a well-disciplined mind which did what she told it to, and she told it not to think about either thing.

Which was just fine while she was awake.  Unfortunately, when she was asleep, so was the self-discipline.  Her dreams were…well.  They involved Castle, and the sort of Christmas presents and activities that were strictly for adults, in private.  And chocolate.  Some of her dreaming mind’s uses for chocolates were…um…well…um… okay, eating was involved.

She woke hot, bothered, and frustrated, and in a state of mind where anyone mentioning Christmas would find out the _Norse_ use for mistletoe, which involved contriving a stabbing weapon.  The population of the bullpen walked wide around her desk.  Ryan and Esposito took one look at the way she was dealing with the paperwork and hid behind their computers. 

Even Montgomery decided not to tweak Beckett’s tail about her contribution to the home-made baking.  It was LT’s turn that day, and he’d made crullers, which were perfectly adequate.  They’d disappeared as fast as any form of food ever did in the precinct.  Cops ate anything which didn’t eat them first.

The black cloud of toxic anti-Christmas-cheer around Beckett’s desk didn’t diminish as her coffee consumption increased: in fact, if it were possible, it intensified.  She took three crullers, and left her Glock conveniently close to her hand in case anyone was stupid enough to object.

Castle wandered in sometime after ten, sporting a sunny smile, two cups of coffee, and a scarf decorated with Christmas trees and tinsel in silver thread.

“Christmas coffee service,” he carolled.  Beckett growled out a thank you, which sounded quite a lot more like a death threat.  He dropped his voice to a low murmur.  “And some chocolate.”

It was amazing how fast that burned off the black cloud.  “Chocolate?  Where?”

“Right here.”  He held the box a little out of her reach.  “But there’s a price.”

“Price?”

“Yep.  You put up a Christmas decoration in your apartment.”

“You what now?  You’re blackmailing me?”

“One decoration.”

Beckett suddenly remembered that she _had_ one Christmas decoration up.  “Okay.” 

Castle handed over the small box of two chocolates, and grinned.  “I get my decoration shortly.”  She quirked an eyebrow.  “Protection of the NYPD.  You get medals for that.”  Eyebrow lowered, replaced by an eyeroll and a glare.  “It’s my duty as a concerned citizen to protect the NYPD from your uncaffeinated wrath.” 

Beckett bit the first chocolate in two with a snap.  Castle sat back and assumed a saintly mien.  The glare dissolved at exactly the same rate as the chocolate did, and by the time it was finished, Beckett had returned to cool normality.

“So when do I get cakes again?” Castle asked hopefully.

Beckett shrugged.  She hadn’t been planning to make cakes tonight, especially since she was on shift today.  “Tomorrow,” her mouth said without permission.  _What the hell_?  Her mouth was still talking.  “Come round after dinner.”  No, no, no!  Where was her self-discipline and control?  She didn’t do cooking for herself, never mind others.

Oh God.  This was going to be a disaster.


	6. Chapter 6

“Hey, Castle.”

“Hey.”   He walked through the door, and sniffed happily.

“You look like a Labrador.  Sniffing and hungry.”

“I am hungry.  You promised me cakes.”  He looked around.  “There they are.”  Big blue puppy eyes pleaded with her.

They were there on the counter.  It was the third batch.  The first two… hadn’t been good.  She’d hurried, and been a little careless, and while _Lanie_ could get away with that, being a natural baker, Beckett couldn’t.  She’d taken time and been very precise with the third lot, and they’d worked.  She’d only finished the frosting with enough time to clear up – very fast – and shower – exceedingly rapidly – before Castle was due.

She didn’t ask herself why she’d taken the trouble, because she didn’t like the answer.  She’d _never_ tried to impress a man before, and she had no idea why she was starting now.

( _It’s because you like him_ , taunted the brainworm.  She ignored that.)

“Oooohhh, you put up a Christmas tree.”  Castle wandered over to it and poked it hopefully.  “Doesn’t it change colour?”

“Nope.”

He pouted, and looked around.  “Is that it?”

“Huh?”

“Is that it for Christmas decorations?”

“Yep.  No need for anything more.”

Castle frowned at her.  “You need more,” he said. 

“No, I don’t.”  She smiled seductively, to distract him from dumb decorations that she didn’t want to have around.  “I thought you wanted to eat cake?”

“Well, yes, but… We can’t have this.  It’s not festive.  It’s not even cheery.”

“Eating cake is cheery.”

“I guess.  So’s this.”  He took two strides, caught her to him and kissed her.  “See?  Cheery.”  And then he kissed her again because one kiss wasn’t enough, and then again because he couldn’t stop, and then her hands were opening his shirt and then her top flew off and _cakes_ weren’t on either of their minds any more.

Beckett didn’t quite know what had happened.  One moment she was ensuring that Castle wasn’t vandalising her apartment with dumb decorations of dubious taste (though undoubtedly excellent quality), and the next moment his lips were scorching over hers and she’d opened to him and _ohhh_ the man could kiss.  Her hands smoothed over the firm muscle of his back, her hips pressed and rolled into his, she tugged away his shirt-tails and slipped her hands over the warm skin below – and he fired up, whipped her top away and clasped her so close she could have been a tattoo, invaded her mouth and she simply sank into sensation and allowed him to do as he pleased.  It was surely pleasing her: he was strong and sure and she loved it.  The tight embrace meant that she could feel every inch of him (and there were plenty of inches there); the hand now in her hair tipped her head to the perfect angle for being kissed.  She melted into her own need for someone who was stronger than she: strong enough to let her soften.

Soft, of course, didn’t mean passive.  She detached herself from his lips and kissed around his jaw till she reached his ear and a nerve that had the same effect on him as he’d found with her.  He groaned, and jerked against her: fondling her ass, murmuring in that dark, deep bedroom baritone.  Her bra fell loose, her pants became unzipped, and he pushed them down and let his fingers glide over the silky fabric underneath. As his fingers moved, so did his mouth, till he’d taken hers again: tongue and fingers moving within her, driving her up: she could only cling to his shoulders and make helplessly aroused noises while he hit the right spot every time; she was soaked and frantic and desperately moving against his fingers when he rubbed the heel of his hand over her and she came hard around him.

He held her up, while her knees wouldn’t, for a bare second, then swept her up and carried her to the bedroom, stripped her of unclipped bra and sodden panties, stripped himself in a few efficient movements, and rose above her.  She gripped his shoulder and pulled him down to her, opening to settle him between her legs, squirming a little so that he was perfectly positioned to slide and rub against her.  Her well-judged stroke and squeeze removed all his higher brain functions and left him with only hard, instinctive desire. He flexed, and thrust, and she arched to him and hauled his head to hers and moved to his rhythm and they broke and were remade as one.

They were lying snuggled together, arms around each other, legs entwined, when Castle’s stomach rumbled loudly.  Beckett snickered.

“Hungry?”

Castle grinned, totally unembarrassed.  “Yes.”  He rose from the bed, to an indignant mutter, walked, still naked, through to the kitchen, found a plate and popped a few cakes on it, added two forks and returned while Beckett was still muttering darkly.

“Food,” he pointed out, and smirked lecherously.  “You’ll need energy.” 

She rolled her eyes.  “So modest.”  ( _He’s got a lot not to be modest about_ , the brainworm oozed.  _Didn’t notice you complaining earlier._ )

“Modesty is overrated.  But if it makes you feel better to hide all that gorgeousness under the sheet, feel free.  I’ll find it later.”

Beckett blinked at him.  Castle’s normal childish silliness was one thing.  This suavely confident, sexy male was quite another, which gave her the most amazingly peculiar sensations in her core.  The appreciation in his openly hot gaze flattered her.  She didn’t pull the sheet up.

“Lie down,” Castle said.  She quirked an eyebrow quizzically.  “You’ll enjoy it.”  He was splitting two of the cakes into pieces, and when he was done, pushed her gently back on to the pillows so that she was flat on her back. 

A predatory, hungry smile appeared on his lips.  He speared a piece of cake with the fork, and put it to her mouth.  Her tongue peeked out, and took it in.  He speared a second piece, but placed it carefully at the base of her throat.

“What” –

“Wait and see.  If you wriggle, you’ll get crumbs and frosting all over the sheets.”

He placed a third piece neatly between her breasts, a fourth on her sternum, and continued placing bite-sized pieces until the last morsel sat below her navel.

“What are you doing?”  ( _You know exactly what he’s going to do.  I’m surprised you’re pretending otherwise.  That blush is a total giveaway._ )

“Can’t you guess?” he flirted.  “Two of my favourite things.  Cake, and you."  His head dipped, and he ate the piece of cake from her throat, adding a kiss with a teasing flick of his tongue.  “But you need to stay still, or there’ll be a terrible mess.

( _Just like you’re going to be a hot mess_ , the brainworm added sardonically.)

Staying still…wasn’t easy, or desirable.  Frosting on the sheets, however, was deeply undesirable.  Apart from her ever-deeper breathing, and the small noises of mingled arousal and disappointment at the touch of Castle’s mobile lips and tongue, nibbling cake from her naked body and leaving soft, scalding kisses as he went, never moving from the straight path downwards to stray and tease her breasts, the proud nipples; apart from those, she was almost still.

He ate the final piece of cake, and smirked.  “I’ve eaten all the cake, but I’m still hungry.”  Beckett wriggled.  His hands clamped on her hips, and she gasped.  Shortly, gasp became moan, became his name became a high cry of satisfaction.

Some considerable time later, they finished the cakes, and Castle reluctantly left.

* * *

Beckett regarded her apartment crossly.  Her ire was not raised by the fact that she had been making cupcakes, since those were cooling on a rack, ready to be frosted and then to be boxed for transit to the bullpen tomorrow.  She was perfectly confident (having tried one as soon as it wouldn’t burn her tongue) that they were good, and of her ability to frost neatly.  Nor was her ire raised by the presence of many delicious chocolates in her fridge.  That was, instead, the redeeming factor. 

Her ire was raised by the presence of many Christmas decorations, adorning – or vandalising – her chic, classy apartment.  She hadn’t asked for them.  In fact, she’d explicitly told Castle she didn’t want them.

But the damn man had come round practically every night, kissed, caressed, and bribed her with chocolates into bed ( _yeah, right.  Bribery wasn’t needed.  You practically jumped his bones as soon as the door shut and I have to say I’m amazed any of his shirts still have buttons attached_ ) – and sneaked in the decorations when she was sleeping the exhausted sleep of the ( _well-fucked_ , said the brainworm) hard worker who would need to be in at shift start the next morning.  ( _Like I said._ )  She’d tried taking the tinsel down, the first time, but Castle had produced completely unreasonably plaintive, sad, and downright pathetic hurt blue eyes and somehow she simply couldn’t leave him that unhappy.

So here she was, surely developing a headache from the glittering tinsel and sparkling baubles that he’d put up, about to wave goodbye to any form of baking for another year.  She absolutely wouldn’t miss it.  She took a chocolate and a mug of coffee to occupy herself until the cakes were cool, and tried to ignore the decorations.  Beside her small table top tree were the presents for her father, beautifully wrapped and ribboned.  She did that herself: because her father loved the  pretty wrappings, and she wanted to make him happy. 

She refused to acknowledge that her ire was because Castle was busy tonight and wouldn’t come round.  She also refused to acknowledge that she’d got used to him being there.  And she _certainly_ wasn’t admitting to herself or anyone else that he was all she wanted for Christmas.  She put all her energy and concentration into frosting and then boxing her cakes, and then had Mexican take-out for dinner and read her non-Christmassy book until bedtime.

“Ah, Beckett,” Montgomery said smoothly the next morning.  “What’s your contribution to Christmas joy and delight?”  From his air of cynical disbelief and slight horror, he clearly expected another batch of burnt mince pies.

“Cupcakes, sir.”  She put the boxes down on LT’s desk, it being nearest, and opened them.  “See?”

“Homemade?”

“Of course, sir,” she rebuked.

Montgomery took one, rather as Socrates took his hemlock, and took a bite.  His eyes widened, however, being a man of considerable sense and even more self-preservation, he said nothing: merely finished the cake – and then snitched a second, repairing to his office with it carefully guarded.  The bullpen watched, collectively open mouthed, and then descended like the Biblical swarm of locusts. 

“Di’n’t know you could bake cupcakes,” Ryan mumbled through a mouthful, spraying crumbs disgustingly.

“Didn’t know you could cook, full stop,” Espo added.  “If you can do that, why’d you bring those horrible pie things every year?”

“Why waste good cooking on the bullpen?”  Both boys bridled.  Beckett ignored them, and went to get on with her work, not neglecting to take a cupcake of her own.  Ten seconds later, not a cake remained.

An hour later, Castle arrived, bearing coffee and the daily box of two chocolates.  He looked around, and spotted the boxes – by which time Beckett had possessed herself of the chocolates and started on the coffee. 

“What was in the boxes?”

“My cupcakes.”

Castle wandered over to the boxes, and then grumped his way back.  “They’re all gone.”

“Yep, that’s what happens in the bullpen.”

“But I didn’t get any,” he whined.

“That’s what happens when you arrive an hour later than everyone else.”

“You should have kept me one.” 

“Says who?”

“Me,” he stated.  “You should’ve kept me a cake.  I thought you liked me.”  He pouted.

“What,” Beckett murmured, “the amount of time you’ve spent naked in my bed didn’t clue you in?”

Castle choked on his own coffee.  Beckett smirked evilly.  When he’d finished spluttering and wheezing, he scowled.  “Surely you’ve kept one for me.  Where is it?”  She didn’t say anything.  “Beckett, you’re being mean.”

“Nope.  Anyway, you’ve eaten lots of cupcakes.”  A tinge of colour limned her cheeks.  Castle’s eyes darkened.

“So I have.”  He paused.  “So I will.” He thought for a moment.  “But you haven’t saved me a cake, so I guess I won’t be eating them tonight.”  He pouted theatrically.  “Unless…”

“Yeah?”

“Unless you left me one in your apartment.”

Beckett smirked.  Of course she had.  Two, actually.  Castle had the most _inventive_ ways of eating cupcakes.

“You did!  You were just teasing me!  Beckett, that’s _mean_.”

“Five year old.”

Castle ignored that, magnificently, and then proved her point by sticking his tongue out at her.  “Santa won’t have you on his nice list.  You’ll get a lump of coal and no presents.”

“I stopped believing in Santa when I was three.”

Castle boggled.  “You didn’t believe in Santa?  That’s _awful_.”

“Santa is a myth.  Myths have no place in the adult world.  It’s just another way to con otherwise sensible adults into spending yet more money on things nobody wants.  It’s got nothing to do with the real meaning of Christmas and it’s just a waste of money and time.”

“You’ll definitely be on the naughty list.”

“One place behind you.”

“I’d rather be behind you,” Castle said with a salacious waggle of his eyebrows.  “So many more options.”

“Shut up, or you won’t get your cupcake.”

“So you did keep me one.  Awwww.  That’s so sweet.”

“Shut up.”  Beckett deflected the conversation.  “When are you bringing in your contribution?”

“Tomorrow.”

“Oh.”  That was…disconcerting.  Everyone would be able to make a direct comparison between her efforts and Castle’s effortlessly brilliant chocolate.  On the other hand, all her cakes had been eaten, so she hadn’t actually _lost_.  Esposito’s cookies had universally been dumped in the trash.

“Hey, girl.”  Lanie’s not so dulcet tones split the air.  “What’s this I hear about all your cupcakes actually getting eaten?  And no-one’s dead, either.  Guess those cooking classes paid off.  See, you should trust your best friend” – she stopped, rather too late.  Beckett’s glare would have destroyed asteroids.

“You went to cooking classes?” Castle gasped.  Beckett’s cheeks flared scarlet, she threw a searing glance at Lanie, who most unreasonably didn’t burst into flames on the spot, and departed at speed, trailing shamed embarrassment.

“Er…oops?”  Lanie said to the empty space where Beckett had been.

“Cooking classes?” Castle said to Lanie.

“Yeah.”  Lanie wasn’t nearly as embarrassed as she should have been.  “Girl wanted to learn to make cupcakes.”

“She said she’d made them plenty of times.”  Lanie looked conscious.  “Lanie?”

“Um… look, I need to go see LT” –

“Doesn’t he normally come and see you?”

“I wanted one of those cupcakes.”

“All gone before I got here.”

Lanie blinked.  “Anyways, lemme talk to LT and then you can buy me coffee and a cupcake seeing as I didn’t get any – take that smirk off your smug face or I’m gonna slap you – and we’ll have a chat.  You need some help.”  Castle smirked in a very satisfied-male way.  “Right now, Beckett’s hightailing it to the Yukon.  You need some help.”  The smirk slid away.

Not many moments later, Lanie was leading the way to a comfortable coffee bar.  Castle paid.

“Okay, cooking classes,” he said.  “Why?”

“Well, you know Beckett doesn’t cook…”

“Yeah, so?  Manhattan’s full of take-out places.”

“Like, really doesn’t cook.  She can’t even boil an egg, and she doesn’t want to learn.  Didn’t,” Lanie corrected.  “So Montgomery invented this dumb tradition that everyone brings in home-baked treats at Christmas, and for years Beckett’s bought some British product called _mince pies_ ” – she might have said _stewed sewer rat_ with less disgust – “charred them in her oven and dared anyone to comment.”  She slurped her coffee.  “And then you showed up, and we all know you can cook, and, well, um…” Lanie trailed off.

“She got competitive,” Castle grinned.  “Why am I not surprised?”  Grin turned to beam.  “They were good cakes, though.”

“Yeah, well.  We won’t be seeing any more of them.  By now she’ll have burned the cookbook and ditched anything that might indicate cooking.  Unless you go talk her out of it.  You talk all the time,” Lanie casually insulted him, “so surely you can put it to good use?”

“You’re the one who let the cat out of the bag.”

Lanie shrugged.  “Thought you’d know,” she defended.  “Anyway, secrets aren’t a good thing in a relationship.”  She drained the coffee.  The cake she’d selected was long gone.  “So go fix it.”

“I get to fix _your_ mistake?”

“Yep.  I’d rather you got shot than I did.”

“Gee, thanks.”

“And you can likely stop her dumping you on your ass.  I can’t.  I wasn’t built for sparring.”  Lanie humphed.  “She’s not gonna be happy with me.”

“Nope.”

“So you better distract her or I’ll have a scalpel with your name on it.”

“I’m already famous.  You don’t need to name your scalpels after me, though of course I’m deeply honoured.”

“Get outta here.  Go find Kate and talk her round.”

“Did you really think I wouldn’t?”

Lanie smiled like a mischievous Christmas elf.  “Nope.  I just wanted some good coffee.”  Castle growled, but there was no anger behind it.  “Go fix it.”  She grinned.  “You know she wants you to.”

“See you, Lanie,” Castle said mildly.  She took the hint. 

Castle considered his coffee, his cookie, and his options.  All of it was underlain by a feeling of considerable satisfaction that cool, collected, anti-Christmas Beckett had been so affected by his presence that she’d felt the need to take cooking classes in order to impress him.  Or at least, not to be embarrassed by her subversion of the Christmas spirit in the bullpen.  He hummed happily to himself, and had another good idea, which was to wander into the stores and acquire another few pretty baubles with which to decorate Beckett’s apartment.  She’d need a while to calm down, and sitting next to her desk, musing over her, probably wasn’t going to assist in that.

He bounced off, perfectly happy.


	7. Chapter 7

Beckett was going to kill Lanie, slowly, carefully and with relish.  She would start with a semi-strangling with tinsel.  Then she would choke her with ever-increasing sizes of baubles.  And finally, she would stake her with the pointy end of a sharpened Christmas tree, and tie the angel to her hair to weigh her down.

And after that, she’d use Lanie’s decapitated head to provide a Christmas wreath (of sorts) for Beckett’s front door.  That would ensure no tuneless carollers or charity collectors.  If she were really lucky, it would even deter Castle.  Though no doubt she wouldn’t be that lucky.  He’d be back to gloat any moment now.  He’d never resist gloating at her need to take cookery classes even to be able to make a basic cupcake. 

She went to a small, discreet coffee shop and purchased a double espresso, which she threw back in one scalding mouthful.  Then she bought her normal, enormously oversized, three extra shots, double pump vanilla latte.  Full sugar vanilla, and full fat milk.  It would explain her short absence.  She pasted on a game face, totally ignored the Christmas-tree cookies and tinsel-wrapped chocolates, and stalked back to the precinct and her desk with an aura which shrivelled plants and small animals into dust.

Castle was not there.  That was a gigantic relief – for all of five seconds.  Then she decided that he’d gone because he’d found out that she’d taken classes and was unimpressed that a thirty-year old woman couldn’t make a cupcake, which was enormously depressing.  She went back to contemplating Lanie’s imminent demise, with ever more creative methods of torture and undetectable murder.  It might not be friendly, but it did stop her eviscerating her colleagues.

Strangely, none of those colleagues had come anywhere close to her desk since she’d returned.  Ryan, indeed, was e-mailing her questions and results, rather than catch her eye.  Even for Ryan in rabbit mode, that was… pleasing.  She buried her head in her paperwork, which became completed and bore her slashed signature at a rate that would have delighted Montgomery, if he weren’t cowering in his office as far away from his top detective as he could reasonably get without actually climbing out of the window.  He wasn’t actually scared of her: he just didn’t want to notice that there might be an issue.   Beckett’s work-rate might drop, and his stats didn’t like that.

Time passed, lunchtime passed, and Castle didn’t reappear.  Beckett’s irascible temper and black mood thickened, and her co-workers unsubtly avoided her desk, her eye, and her.  Come shift end, she cleared up her desk and marched out.  It was a full five minutes before a single other person dared to approach the elevator, just in case she hadn’t actually left the building.  Though since there were no fire alarms screeching, it was most likely that she’d gone.

Beckett had gone.  She had gone home, where she was intending to stuff herself with enough chocolate ice-cream to re-ice Antarctica, and wash it down with enough vodka to stop her going and shooting Lanie.  Or at least, if she tried shooting, she would miss.  Not that she’d miss Lanie.  Best friend, Beckett’s ass.

She defiantly shovelled in ice-cream, and then found the remains of her chocolates in the fridge and started on them, taking full advantage of her cast-iron digestion.  When she’d finished, she decided, she was going to remove every single Christmas decoration which she hadn’t wanted anyway and dump them on Castle’s doorstep.

She was one pint of ice-cream, four chocolates, two vodkas, and one coffee to the good when the door sounded.  She didn’t want to answer it.  It was Castle, and she didn’t want to see him.  He’d only make fun of her, or gloat, and she didn’t want either.

He kept knocking.  Shortly, it was going to annoy the neighbours, which she tried not to do.  She would have to open the door, because she’d back old Mrs Leibnitz’s shih tzus against all comers up to and including grizzly bears, which meant that she, Beckett, hadn’t a hope of surviving the irritated dogs.

She stalked to the door, with only a very minor wobble which had nothing at all to do with vodka on a relatively empty stomach, and flung it open with a planet-destroying glare.

“Go away.”

“Shan’t,” Castle said childishly, and walked in, using his unchildlike size and strength to push past her.  He was carrying two boxes, which he carefully set on the table, and then turned back to Beckett, who was returning to her vodka and chocolates and ignoring the unnecessary and unwanted presence of Castle.

“Nuh-uh,” he said.  “You don’t get to do that.  C’mere.”  He plucked her up and hugged her in, lifting her up to her bare tiptoes.  “You’re being silly.”  He plopped a kiss on the top of her head.  “Snuggle in and stop ignoring me.”  Another kiss, in the hope that she’d look up.  It didn’t work, so he walked them to the couch, sat down with Beckett in his lap, and sneaked one of his chocolates.  “You’re still being silly,” he said affectionately.  “D’you really think I care if you took cooking classes?  How do you think I learned to cook?  I could hardly watch at my mother’s knee.  She can’t boil water: it’s why she only ever drinks my wine.”  There was a muffled snicker.  “C’mon, come out.  I heard you snigger.  Stop sulking.”

She didn’t move.  “Okay, I’ll eat the chocolates.”  Beckett sat bolt upright, and Castle took the open opportunity to kiss her properly, muffling her indignant protests and preventing her moving the box by the simple expedient of caging her against his chest.

“There,” he said, lifting off but keeping her safely cuddled in.  “All better – at least, is Lanie still alive?”

Beckett growled horribly.  “Yeah.”  The following growl sounded very much like _but she doesn’t deserve to be.  Call herself my friend?_

“Good.  You don’t get chocolate in prison, and being in a cell would be very limiting.”

“Huh?”

“No conjugal visits.  Very limiting.”

“ _Conjugal visits_?  Did we get married and I didn’t notice?”

“No, but would you like to?”

“What?”

“I can cook, and you can be the breadwinner.  Sounds pretty good to me.”

“What?”

“We’re a perfect fit.  Obviously we should get married right now.”  He hummed _All I Want For Christmas (is you)_.

“You’re insane.”

“So you can keep my insanity in check.”  He kissed her again, because she was right there, with a face like a stranded codfish and a complete inability to articulate.  Boggled Beckett was positively wonderful, and much more to the point, it was rapidly removing her quite unnecessary annoyance and upset.  Why would he care if she took classes?  “See, we should get married.  I’ll be a homemaker and you’ll go out to work.  Perfect.”

She stared at him, still open-mouthed.  “You’re crazy.  Totally crazy.”

Castle, on a thoroughly mischievous roll, carried on.  “Nope.  I know we’ve only been dating for a couple of weeks, but we’ve been working together for nearly a year and I’ve written nearly the whole of a second book all about you, and you haven’t shot me yet, so it’s obviously fated.”

Beckett sat there like a stunned sow.  She couldn’t think of a single word to say.  ( _That’s because you wouldn’t object to being married.  After a proper period, of course.  Which isn’t two weeks.  Two months, maybe._ She knotted the brainworm into a ring, soldered the ends together, and threw it in the trash.  It rolled out, hoop style.)

“And of course, if you married me, I could make you chocolates all the time.”

“You could do that anyway,” she pointed out.

“And now you’ve stopped sulking.  Good.  I wanna kiss you.”  Her face turned up, still confused.  “Then I want my cupcake.  You said you’d kept me one.  I missed out earlier.”

Her face clouded.

“Hey, stop that.  I just said.  I took all sorts of cooking classes – otherwise I’d have died of starvation before I was twenty.  I couldn’t afford take-out every night: I had to learn.  God knows, Mother can’t cook.”  He shuddered.  “Don’t ever ask her to add salt to a soup.”  The appalling memory sped across his expression.  “Anyway, I liked your cupcakes.  I don’t care if you had to go to a class to learn how.”

“I hate cooking,” Beckett muttered blackly.

“So let me do it.  I enjoy it.”  He pouted at her.  “You’ve never come for dinner no matter how often I’ve invited you.  You won’t even come out to Remy’s more than once a month.  It’s not fair, you know.”

“Your cupcake is on the counter,” Beckett said, desperate to stop the insanity.  Castle was boggling her beleaguered brain.

“Is it?  I think she’s right here.”

“I am _not_ a – mmmffffff.”

Castle had kissed her, most unfairly stopping her telling him never, _ever_ , to refer to her as ‘cupcake’.  Ugh.  That was _almost_ worse than Christmas tat.

“You taste just as good.”

“Don’t call me – mmmfffff.”

“Definitely.  It can be our pet name” –

“No!”

“But you’ve got to have a pet name,” he drooped.  “Otherwise it’s not a real relationship.”

“Like ‘kitten’?”

“No.  Definitely not.  If you call me kitten I’ll call you cupcake – in the precinct.”

“If you do that I will shoot you!”  Castle blinked at her.  “No pet names.  None.”  She glared fearsomely.  “And no more Christmas bling.  I’ve got a headache.”

“Ah.  Um.  About that…”  He reached for the second box, and handed her it.

Beckett scowled.  “I don’t _like_ Christmas decorations.”

Castle looked around, meaningfully. 

“I don’t.  This is all your fault and I wish you wouldn’t.  All the sparkle gives me a headache.”

“You’ll like this one.”

She was quite sure she wouldn’t like it.  And she definitely had a headache.  ( _You still won’t be saying ‘not tonight, Josephine’ to him.  Even if all you do is snuggle._ )  Castle pressed the box into her unwilling hands.

“Open it.”  He gave her puppy dog eyes, which was simply unfair.  If she’d wanted a puppy she’d have bought one, and anyway no-one should buy puppies at Christmas.  “C’mon, open it.”

Oh, for Pete’s sake.  Was he five?  ( _That wasn’t a five year old’s kiss.  You’re sulking because he stopped.  And I think cupcake suits you, as a nickname._   Beckett baked the brainworm into a cupcake and made sure to burn it.  The brainworm exited the charred contents of the cake case, unscathed.)

“O _kay_.”  She opened it, slowly and reluctantly – and gasped.  It was a simple, small, and utterly beautiful glass star: silvery tracing on the fragile points.   Castle didn’t say anything, merely waited patiently while Beckett gaped, dumbfounded.

“It’s beautiful,” she finally whispered, and delicately traced the silvery filigree with the tip of a finger.

“I know you don’t really like all the other decorations,” he said, “but this one…well, it was different.”  She looked up into the sincere, clear blue gaze, her own eyes slightly liquid.  “It…”

“Mm?”

“It had meaning,” he rushed out.  “Not just a pretty bauble with Santas on it.”

“The Star which shone over Bethlehem.”  Her voice was very quiet.  Castle slipped an arm around her, and held her close.

“Yes,” he said, simply.  She laid her head on his shoulder, and for a little while there was companionable silence: no teasing, or snark, or banter.

“I’ll put it over the window,” Beckett eventually said, “but not now.”  There was another peaceful pause.  She could feel Castle’s nose nuzzled into her hair, his arm around her, hers lying at rest on his knee.

The mood was broken when Castle’s stomach growled.

“Didn’t you have dinner?”

“No.  Have you?”

Beckett blushed.  Ice-cream, chocolate and vodka weren’t really dinner.  “No,” she replied, and consciously didn’t look at the open box of chocolates.

“Let’s get some dinner, then.”  He regarded her slightly sidelong.  “I guess it’s takeout?”

“Yes.”

“Or I could take you out.  Like a date.”

Beckett grinned.  “But the chocolates and the cupcakes are here…” she enticed.

“True.  I guess taking you away from the chocolates is a life-threatening experience?”

“Yep.”  She wriggled to get comfortable, and not incidentally to be within reach of the chocolates.  “Thai?”

“Okay.”

A little time later, the Thai take-out had been eaten and the dishes cleared.  Beckett, without needing to think about it, was meditatively sampling a chocolate, cosily wrapped within Castle’s arm.  Castle was cheerfully munching a cupcake, while keeping a close eye on the second one to ensure that Beckett didn’t eat it.  He had plans for that cake, which did, to be fair, involve eating.  Of a very particular style, of which Castle was fully aware Beckett would approve.

She did.  Vocally and with enthusiasm.  Castle equally approved of Beckett’s creative use of chocolate, and spent some quality time experimenting in return.  Much later, he sneaked home.

* * *

Castle bounced in with enough chocolates to feed New York, plopped them down, and had to skip back hurriedly to avoid the stampede of sugar-seeking cops.  He watched delightedly as his chocolates disappeared into the ravenous maw of the Twelfth’s share of New York’s Finest, and accepted compliments with aplomb. To be sure, the compliments were cop-style. 

“I guess I haven’t been poisoned.”

“I dunno about this green stuff.  ME oughta check it out.”

“CSU already on their way.”

“It’s pistachio, dumbass.”

“Looks like poison.”

“I’m waiting to see if anyone falls over dead first.”

Castle merely grinned, and made sure he ate his fair share.

It wasn’t until a good fifteen minutes after the last chocolate had been despatched that he realised one particular chocoholic was missing.

“Where’s Beckett?” he asked.  “It’s not like her to miss out on sugary things.”

“The ADA called, first thing.  Some piece of evidence that they wanted to talk to her about.”

“Oh.  She’s missed out on the chocolates…”

Castle trailed off.  There were no chocolates left.  Specifically, there was not a single chocolate left for Beckett, and while she’d disposed of around three tons of his chocolate at her own apartment, she was likely not going to be happy at having missed out on the precinct’s chocolate.  His lifespan suddenly felt as if it were about to be truncated.  Even coffee wasn’t going to save him.

In an effort to divert Beckett’s certain irritation, he decorated her chair with some handy tinsel, and awaited his doom.

Doom didn’t appear until almost lunchtime, and she was _not_ happy.

“That dumbass ADA couldn’t find his dumb ass with both hands,” she growled.  “That evidence was right there in front of his dumb nose.”  She glared around.  Many cops found themselves extremely interested in the papers on their desks, and extremely _un_ interested in the ominous presence of infuriated Beckett.  Christmas, if she noticed them, would be very rapidly and messily cancelled.

Beckett’s glare landed on the empty boxes, still adding Christmas cheer to the bullpen.  She stalked over to them, identified their empty state in one fell swoop and scowl, and stalked back to her desk.

“There is no chocolate.”  Ice formed on the bullpen.  Hardened cops, some still with chocolate staining their lips, considered taking cover.  “You didn’t keep me any?”

A faint flicker of self-preservation stopped Castle saying _you didn’t keep me a cupcake yesterday: I had to wait till the evening_.  Instead, he said, “I didn’t bring them, in case the rest of the bullpen ate them before you got a chance.”  Which, of course, meant exactly the same thing, but sounded so much better.

“Oh.”  She started for the break room, in search of coffee.  The bullpen parted for her as the Red Sea for Moses, though Moses hadn’t instilled the same dread in the waves.  Castle trotted after her, mainly to ensure she didn’t break the machine, saw her glare, and made the coffee himself.  The coffee machine wasn’t designed to cope with superheated steam.

“I could bring them round this evening,” he said hopefully.

“Aren’t there _any_ left?” Beckett drooped.

Castle shook his head.

“I will _kill_ that dumbass ADA.  I’ll extract his intestines and strangle him with them.  I’ll” – Castle stopped listening as Beckett described, not quite _enough_ under her breath, in detail and with the relish that only a member of the Spanish Inquisition confronting a witch could produce, precisely how she would torture and kill the unlucky ADA.  Castle’s legs crossed so tightly they were basically braided.  She was still inventing new torments when he slipped away.  He didn’t trust that she wouldn’t use all of them on him if he didn’t show up with chocolates that evening.

Beckett was so annoyed at the ADA that she barely noticed Castle’s departure.  Idiot prosecutors, _and_ he’d deprived her of chocolate, which might have soothed her wrath.  Coffee helped, but not enough.  She marched back to her desk with yet more espresso, and only then realised both that Castle was absent and that her chair was tinselled.  Neither pleased her.  The tinsel was unceremoniously removed.  Sadly, she couldn’t remove her quite ridiculous wish that Castle had stayed.  ( _You’ve got it bad_.  She couldn’t even muster up enough game to shoot the brainworm.  It fainted with the shock, and even acquired a look of concern when it woke up.)

She grumbled and groused and griped her way home, entered, looked at all the Castle-flavoured decorations and the star hanging in a window, and wondered how she’d got into this state.

( _Dumbass_ , said the brainworm _.  Think.  Chocolate would help that – or a drill to let light into your thick head_.)

She didn’t want to think.  She wanted – oh, for goodness’ sake.  She wanted Castle.  Worse, she wanted Castle there with or without chocolate.  ( _You know what that means.  See, even you aren’t immune to magic._ )  She made herself coffee and waited.  Surely he’d arrive soon?

He didn’t. 

Beckett had never waited up to try to see Santa in her life, since she didn’t believe in him and never had, but she suddenly understood how those small deluded children might feel.  The fact that she had waited less than three minutes since she had thought “soon” entirely escaped her.  In the back of her mind, the brainworm (which did believe in Santa, as well as reincarnation and, most importantly, true love) sniggered quietly.


	8. Chapter 8

Finally, the door resounded with Castle’s knock, and Beckett whipped across the room to let him in.  Not that she was going to allow him to know how happy she was that he was there, oh no.  He’d get big(ger) headed.

“Hey,” she said.  Castle, not one to miss an opportunity, not only hugged her but also indulged in a lengthy and searching kiss.  Most surprisingly, Beckett hadn’t filched the box of chocolates (he had spent the afternoon making some more for her, of course), but was enthusiastically kissing him back: her hands around his neck.  He concluded that she was delighted to see him, and continued to take full advantage of delighted, wrapped-around-him Beckett.  With a little careful movement, he steered them both to the couch, sat down with Beckett landing on his lap, and managed to put the box down so that he could devote both arms to hugging her.

“I brought you chocolate,” he said. 

“Thanks.”  But she laid her head on his shoulder rather than diving into the box.

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah, why?”

“You aren’t eating the chocolate.”

Beckett blushed brightly enough to melt the chocolate.  She’d been so caught up in kissing Castle that she’d actually failed to notice the box.  ( _So much for not letting him know how happy you are that he’s come.  Or should that be you?_ )

His gaze flicked around as Beckett covered her flusterment by taking a chocolate.  “Oh, you put up the star.  It looks really good there.”

“Yes.  _I_ put it up,” she said, with considerable emphasis on the _I_.  “Unlike the rest of the stuff, which I don’t remember putting up at all.”

“That’s ‘cause you didn’t.  I did.  Call it a Christmas present.”

Beckett made an indescribable noise around her mouthful of chocolate.

“Besides which, you haven’t taken them down.”

She swallowed the mouthful.  “That’s because the first time I tried you practically burst into tears and I can’t afford to replace the rugs if you flood the floor with your weeping.”

“That was practically poetic, Beckett.  I must be rubbing off on you.”  ( _Getting off, more like_ , said the brainworm happily. _And don’t you just love it_?)

“Not obviously.”

“Do you want me to?”  He stopped that line of conversation swiftly at her expression, and put a stray chocolate to her already-parting lips.  Rather than berate him, she took the candy.  Then she took his mouth.  Then he took hers.

She sank into the kiss.  All her general irritation and anti-Christmas feeling dissolved as something bigger took their place: a feeling of homecoming and safety; warmth and love – oh my God.  OhmyGod.  OhmyGod.  ( _Dumbass.  It’s taken you this long?  All that chocolate has addled your brain as well as settling on your hips._   It had not.  Her pants were just as loose as they had been a month ago.)  She stopped kissing Castle and gleeped frantically.  Nononononono.  It wasn’t happening.  Nonononono.  It was silly.  Ridiculous.  It had only been _three weeks_ since he kissed her.  Not even three weeks.  She couldn’t possibly have fallen for him in three weeks.  Life wasn’t like that.  That wasn’t logical or efficient or Beckett-like at all.  She gleeped some more.

“What’s wrong?” Castle worried.  “You just stopped.  Did I do something wrong?  What’s up?  Did I hurt you?  Didn’t you want kissed?”

“It’s okay,” she managed. 

“So come back and kiss me.  You haven’t any cupcakes to feed to me” –

“Is that what you call it?”

“Yep – so come and kiss me to make up for it.”

“Make up for it?”

“Yep.  I like your cupcakes.”  He smiled wolfishly.  “Especially when they’re so nicely presented to me.  Presentation is so important.”

Beckett, who felt that talking was entirely unnecessary ( _and might reveal something your dumb idiot head should have known three weeks ago.  Which you should tell him._   Shut up, she said.  The brainworm didn’t, but Beckett tuned it out), took the easy way out and kissed him.

Castle didn’t seem to be objecting.  Beckett’s hands slipped into his hair, just in case he might think about escaping, and his settled around her to keep her close.  She hadn’t been planning to go anywhere – except, perhaps, the bedroom.  ( _Definitely the bedroom.  Wasn’t your shirt buttoned a second ago?_ )

Her shirt had been buttoned a second ago.  So had Castle’s.  In some mysterious fashion, which had nothing to do with unwrapping one’s presents (not Christmas presents, which had to wait till Christmas – silly idea! – but in Beckett’s normal efficient fashion, supplied for her immediate enjoyment), both shirts appeared to be unbuttoned.  Very strange.  Ah well.  One should never look a gift Castle in the mouth.  Far better to kiss said mouth.  So she did.

“My present,” Castle murmured into the kiss.  “Lemme unwrap you a bit more.”  He didn’t wait, simply pushed the shirt back from her shoulders and swept it down her arms and away.  “That’s better.” 

“ _My_ present to unwrap,” Beckett stated, with all the possessiveness she’d applied to her chocolates.  Castle’s heart sang.  He’d wanted her to sound like that about him: wanted to be indubitably hers – and for her to be indubitably _his_. 

“So unwrap,” he said, and smiled.  “Just try not to tear the wrappings, ‘kay?  I hate sewing.”

Beckett slid her hands over the smooth cotton, drawing it up and out of Castle’s pants, then languidly unfastened the final button, which had been hiding below his belt.  The shirt was pushed wide on his shoulders, baring his broad chest.  She picked up a chocolate, and drew a leisurely line along each collarbone, and then one straight down from clavicles to sternum.  A little trail of chocolate contrasted with his skin.  She rubbed the chocolate across his lips, and then over her own, finally slipping it between hers with a seductive slither.  The shirt fell away as she leaned forward, the tip of her tongue peeking out of her mouth, to trace and clean away the line of chocolate. 

Castle growled deep in his chest as she raised her head and licked a faint hint of chocolate from her lips.  “You had cupcakes,” she pointed out.  “I prefer chocolate.”

“I prefer _you_ ,” Castle rasped, and tried to pounce.  Beckett wasn’t having that.  She pounced first.  In the pouncing stakes, however, weight and bulk was always going to defeat speed.  She might have got there first, but Castle lost no time in reversing the position and landing firmly over her.  “Now I’ve got you.”  He descended on her mouth, pinning her hands in his, and simply conquered: kissing her till she couldn’t think, exploring, searching and owning every moist inch and eliciting small, needy noises and heavy breathing.

“This would be a lot more comfortable somewhere else,” Beckett forced out through the fog of _don’t stop_ , as Castle was smoothly kissing around her jaw to her earlobe.  He stopped, instantly.

“It hurts?”

“No, but… there’s not a lot of room and if you fall off you’ll squash the chocolates.”

Castle muttered darkly.  “You’re more worried about the chocolates than me?”

“You bounce.”

“What?  I’m not fat!”

“You bounce around like Tigger on uppers.”

“That’s not much better.”  He sat up, pulling Beckett with him and obviously admiring her slightly dishevelled and half-undressed state.  “On the other hand” – he ran that hand down the centre of her cleavage – “somewhere else would have some advantages.”

Beckett found herself standing up, and then found herself minus pants, which were puddling on the floor around her feet.

“Well, well,” Castle said slowly.  “Christmas underwear.  Very sexy.”

“It is not.”

“Dark red and white edging?”  ( _He’s got you there._   Nonsense.  She’d bought them in July.   Christmas had never occurred to her.)  “It’s seasonal.  And did I say sexy?”  He stood up himself, and loomed over her.  “Christmas underwear for a Christmas present.”  He swung her up bridal style, and kissed her.  “Let’s go somewhere more comfortable.”

Beckett’s bed was certainly more comfortable than the couch.  Castle had managed to kick his shoes off while plopping her on the bed, and was propped up on an elbow surveying her and following his gaze with wicked fingers.  They danced up and down, and wandered over the white lace edging of her bra and panties, insinuating but never quite delivering on their erotic promise.

Beckett was quite sure that Castle’s actions were unfair: however, she had a cure for that.  ( _You could try telling him how you really feel.  That’ll cure a lot of unfairness.  Look at him.  He’s totally besotted and you’re not telling him that you are too.  You’re the unfair one here._ )  She would start by removing his really quite unnecessary pants.  After all, with all the cupcakes he’d eaten, she wouldn’t want to find that he had materially changed shape.  ( _He hasn’t.  Except for the extremely obvious area.  Could you stop drooling like that?  It’s embarrassing, and I’m drowning.  Worms don’t have much of a height advantage._   Good, Beckett thought vengefully.)

She dragged her fingers down his chest, played idly with his nipples and heard the indrawn breath with pleasure, then continued downward to palm across him and then languidly undid his belt and pants button.  He had definitely changed shape.  Very attractively.  The zipper susurrated in the quiet bedroom, and her fingers succumbed to the attraction of the new shape, dipping beneath the fabric and finding hard flesh.  She played for a moment, then decided that the pants were, um, constricting, and drew them off.

She outright laughed.  “Seriously?  Candy cane boxers?”

Castle merely smiled.  “Christmas delights come in many forms, Detective.  Come here and I’ll show you.”

“Or I could show you.”  She wriggled back up from his feet, and demonstrated.  Candy canes were all very well, but there weren’t any of _those_ in her bedroom.  Castle-canes, so to speak, were.  Excellently lickable, suckable, and generally providing immense oral satisfaction.  It appeared that Castle was experiencing oral satisfaction, too, from the profane and animalistic noises he was emitting and the way in which his hands had knotted themselves in her hair.  His hips flexed and he lost all control under her ministrations, coming on her name.

Having expected Castle to be devoid of thought, brain and physical co-ordination for a few moments, Beckett was somewhat surprised to be pulled up, tucked in, and generally prevented from doing anything that wasn’t snuggling in and being cuddled.  It wasn’t that she objected ( _You love it_ ), but that he really shouldn’t have been able to do anything.  Though… he certainly wasn’t managing to do anything else.  Maybe it was simply an instinctive reaction.  Castle touched things without actually ever engaging his brain, so it made sense that cuddling didn’t require brain either.  She lay over his chest, listening to his heart slowing to normal, wholly at ease.

His fingers began to pet ( _you normally call that fidgeting.  Don’t tell me you’re getting to like it?_ ) and stroke along her side and back.  It was soft, gentle, and totally erotic, despite avoiding all classically erogenous zones.

Oh.  That would be because his fingers had sneakily gripped her waist and turned her on to her back and his wicked, evil lips _were_ exploring classically erogenous zones.  The man shouldn’t use his mouth for eating or talking, when he could do _that_ with it.  ( _You like him eating_ , the brainworm leered.  Beckett’s one functioning neuron produced a moa-bird, which ate the worm.  Unfortunately, the worm didn’t also become extinct, and reappeared as the bird disintegrated.)

He lipped, sucked, nipped and licked.  Then he moved down, still nibbling – and there wasn’t even any cupcake to nibble, only bared Beckett.  She wriggled.  She couldn’t help it.  Castle grinned against her stomach.  “You like this.”  The grin widened.  “You love it.”

She startled.

“What?”  Castle’s surprised face popped back up.  “How can you be…surprised…by…that…” His brow furrowed.  Thought was unwelcome.  Castle stopping was also unwelcome.  Solution: stop Castle thinking.  Beckett wrapped long, strong legs around his shoulders, and pressed meaningfully.  It had the right result.  Castle stopped thinking about anything except the bounty before him, and returned to his work.  Beckett returned to utter pleasure and a complete lack of any thought.

“Yes…there…ohhhhhh _fuck_ Castle _Castle!”_

She’d barely recovered from the first full-body orgasm when he’d risen above her and filled her full and kissed her deeply and begun to thrust: strong thighs flexing, hard body possessing her and just perfectly, totally right within her.  She dragged him down to cover her, heedless of his weight, and arched and gave up to him and they fell together.  As before, he cuddled her in.

Castle wasn’t quite asleep, but was certainly well on his way there, when he heard a definitely sleepy mumble.

“Think I love you,” it said.

“What did you say?”  A stunned squeak emerged from Castle’s mouth.

“Huh?  Didn’t say anything.”  She curled down again.

“You did so.  You said – you said you _loved me_!”  He hauled her up to his mouth and kissed her frantically, desperately.

No.  Nononononono.  ( _Yesyesyesyes yes!_ said the brainworm.  _You did_.  Didn’t.  _Did._ )  She didn’t say that.  She couldn’t have been that relaxed.  It was all Castle’s fault.  He’d seduced her with chocolates and a beautiful star and sneaked ridiculously over-the-top Christmas decorations all over her apartment and totally blown her brain.  ( _That wasn’t your brain, you know_.  Shut up.)  What had _happened_ to her common sense and reserve?  ( _Castle happened, dumbass._ )  She tried to pull away, and failed miserably.  With every second that Castle wasn’t saying anything in return, her spirit shrank.

“Do you?  Really?”  He kept kissing her.  And he still wasn’t saying anything in return, like _I love you too_.  Though she supposed at least it wasn’t _shit this is a disaster_.  “Promise?”  He appeared to realise that she wasn’t saying anything.  “You did mean it, didn’t you?”  His voice wobbled.

What?  ( _Wake up, idiot!  He’s totally insecure._   What?  _Insecure.  It means –_ I know what it means. _He’s desperate for you to mean it_.)

“Because I do too,” he stammered.  “Love you, I mean.  Not me.  That would be, um,” –

“Egotistic.”

“Yeah.  But do you really?”

Beckett was speechless, staring down at him.  “You do?” she eventually managed.  ( _Are you terminally dumb?  Because it sounds like it.  Look at the man.  He’s terrified._ )

“Uh…er…yes?”

( _Told you so.  Idiot.  All that chocolate has gummed up what little brain you had._   Beckett gummed up the brainworm.  It didn’t work.)

“Really?”

“Yes.  So could you just come back here and kiss me again because I’m not sure I believe you’re real but then again Santa is real so maybe it is real and – mmmmffffff!”  There was a short pause.  “Okay, I think you’re real – ow!  Okay, you _are_ real.  But” – he became hesitant again – “did you mean it?”

“Do I tell every random guy I meet I love him?”

Castle, belatedly recognising the trap, declined to be netted.  He shook his head.

“Well, then.  What do you think?”

“Say it again.  I wanna hear it.”

Beckett, embarrassed to the point of bursting into flames from the heat of her blush, hid her face in Castle’s chest and muttered something completely unintelligible.  “Now you,” she said, more audibly.

“I love you too, Kate.”

She wrapped herself around him, and held him close: as close as he was holding her.  Shortly, soft, deep breathing filled the room.

“Did I dream all of that?” Castle asked, hours later.

“If you did, so did I.”

“Ooooohhhhh, joint dreams.  It must be fate.”

“So you think it was just a dream?”

“No.”  He emphasised his words by tugging her into him and kissing her hard, which led to other matters becoming hard, which led, in the natural order of things, to hard meeting soft and both of them touching the stars.

“I’m hungry,” Castle complained. 

“There’s chocolate, so I’m okay.”

He scowled theatrically.  “You won’t share?”

“I’ve never shared my chocolate with _anyone_.  There is no love greater than the love of chocolate.”  She smiled.  “But there might be one equal to it.”  She slid out of bed, retrieved the chocolates, and returned to slide back under the covers.  She picked out a chocolate, and put it to his lips.  “There.”

( _It really must be love_ , the brainworm snarked.)

Castle reciprocated.  Four chocolates each later, they regarded each other.

“If I have any more I’ll be sick,” Castle said.

“Not me.”  Beckett popped another one in her mouth.  “But I do want some left for another time.”  She closed the lid, and snuggled back down.

* * *

**_24 December_ **

“Are you ready to go?”

“Yes.”  Beckett pulled on her hat and gloves and locked up.  “Where are we going?”

“St Paul’s Chapel of Trinity Church, 209 Broadway.”

“Mmmm.  Traditional carols.”

Castle stared at the back of Beckett’s head as she preceded him into the elevator.  “You’ve been before, haven’t you?”

“Yep.”

“Why have I never seen you there?”

“Don’t know.  Maybe you weren’t looking.  Anyway, you hadn’t even met me last Christmas.”

He slung an arm round her.  “But now I have,” he said comfortably, “and aren’t you pleased about it?”

“As long as you keep bringing me chocolates.”  She smirked as he spluttered.  Discombobulated Castle was fun.  He dropped a very welcome kiss on her hair.

The chapel was already busy: the organist playing Christmas voluntaries until the service began. 

During the service, Beckett raised up her voice, and completely missed Castle’s utter astonishment as she lost herself in the pomp and ceremony of the old hymns and carols; as she listened to the readings and the Gospel.  Beside her, Castle’s fingers twined into hers and his baritone joined her mezzo; but he didn’t think she really noticed him at all.

It wasn’t until they spilled out, candles doused and snow settling on their hats and coats, that Beckett returned to herself, still thoughtful and pensive.  Castle respected her silence, but wondered.

“Do you want to come back to the loft?  I’ve got mulled wine, and cinnamon cookies.”

“Okay.”  She paused.  “I always go to the midnight service,” she murmured.  Castle hadn’t heard that quiet, confiding tone since she’d said _It was my mother…this is for the life that I saved.  And this is for the life that I lost_.  He stayed silent, inviting her to continue just as he had that night.  “It… helps.  I don’t like the season.  Mom…”  She breathed in harshly.  “But it reminds me that there’s something bigger.  Hope.  A light in the darkness.”

Castle only put a gentle arm around her, and didn’t try to talk.

“And now you’re here.  Another light in the darkness.” 

He gulped, and tightened his arm.  She turned within his embrace, and kissed him.

“Merry Christmas, Castle.”  She kissed him again.  “Just one thing.”

“Anything.”

“Mm.  Promise me _you’ll_ do all the Christmas cooking.”

**_Fin._ **


End file.
